


Artist on Fire

by TwylaMercedes



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Adult Language, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Urban Romance, some smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-09-11 04:24:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 84,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8953570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwylaMercedes/pseuds/TwylaMercedes
Summary: In a Southern Town a dissolute, albeit gifted, artist acquires a maid.  She, amid quirky friends, acquaintances, and multiple exes, begins to impact his life, change his thinking and inspire his work.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For readers who enjoyed Out of the Ashes (on the Fanfiction site) I'm returning to Asheville, North Carolina, a haven for artists, restaurants, and southern mores, for a fluffy story of disconnected characters trying to sort out their own lives.

Something was different.

He waited a moment for the room to stop whirling around and for the ceiling to come into focus. Yes, there it was – that was his ceiling -- a soft white with a couple of hairline cracks, something unavoidable when you lived in an aging building that was settling in.  But, it was his ceiling, his very own bedroom ceiling.  It wasn’t some strange ceiling or, a more familiar sight, the floor tile in his bathroom.  He wiped some spittle from the corner of his mouth and considered sitting up.

_Something was different._

His head hurt, but then it always did when he woke up. He rubbed his nose bridge hoping to soothe out some of the radiating waves of nausea and pain.  It didn’t work. 

Oh, there it was.  The reason he had come to. Pain in his bladder. 

He needed to pee.

He gritted his teeth and sat up on the edge of his bed steeling himself, knowing that the pain and nausea would well up and take over his very consciousness.  He held his breath and waited for it to subside to a dull pounding.

_Something was different._

In the minutia of moments thereafter, he realized that he was wearing only his boxers and a t-shirt.  He had no memory of taking off his shoes, his socks, his pants or his shirt.  He shrugged, the tiny action sending an icepick of pain deep into his skull, nails-on-a-blackboard pain.

Now, what was it that he had been trying to do? 

Oh, yes, the full bladder. 

He considered, planning out his route to the pot.  He didn’t immediately see his cane so he would have to use the furniture for support.  Fortunately, the furniture had all had been strategically placed for just such an occasion. 

This wasn’t his first rodeo.

He waited a moment building up his courage.  Taking a deep breath, he moved as rapidly as he could, standing as he could on the floor and leaning forward to grab the nightstand, then stepping over to the dresser and then to the chair and finally grasping the doorknob of the bathroom.  From there he could get to the sink and then the toilet.  He sat, not trusting his ability to stand and successfully relieved himself without soaking his boxers, the seat, or the floor of the bathroom. 

From there it was another dull frantic effort back to the bed.  He was sitting on the side of the bed debating his next move.

“Oh, you poor thing.”

He heard someone talking. 

He’d had hallucinations before, particularly when he’d mixed drugs and alcohol.  But he didn’t think he was drunk or high at the moment – quite the opposite.  He was painfully, clearly, unrelentingly conscious. 

There was a waft of fresh air, someone was moving.  He tried to focus. 

Petite, brunette, soft, feminine, lace and draping linen, neutral pastel colors, a faint delicate scent.  _He heard the faint tinkling, dulcet notes of the glass armonica playing the Sugar Plum Fairy._   A dainty little thing.

“Given how you were last night, I would have been surprised if you’d been doing all right this morning.  I’ve gone ahead and got some things together for you.  It’ll just be a moment.”

 _Well,_ that _was what was different._

He hadn’t been sitting on the bed very long when the little tinkling flit came back in.

“Drink this,” she directed him, handing him a tall glass of thick red liquid. 

It tasted about like sweat, he thought after a swallow.  With a little heat.  A Low C, slightly flat.  But it felt good on his throat so he dutifully downed it.

“It’s my special Morning After.  I mix it up for my Papa often.  Now,” she handed him a piece of toast.  “You may want to take a couple of bites of this.  It’s whole wheat toast with just a little honey.  It’ll help settle your stomach. You don’t have to eat the whole thing.”

He took a few bites, the sweetness appealing to him, _a nice B Natural_. 

“Aspirin?” he managed to ask hoarsely.

“Oh no,” the little creature shook her head.  “Aspirin would just make you feel better.”   

_What?!  Did that mean no aspirin?_

_It so hurt to think._

“Now just stay right there,” she told him and then she surprised him by climbing onto the bed, kneeling behind him.  “Just close your eyes and relax,” she directed him.

 _Bossy little thing._ But he sat still.  The next thing he felt were her fingers gently massaging his temples and forehead.  She had put some sort of menthol ointment on them and he found himself breathing deeply.  It was a warm, pleasant smell that was seeping into his brain, a soft soothing violin solo.  Her little fingers were strong yet gentle, moving in little circles, soothing him like he had failed to do for himself earlier.  In time, she worked her way down over his scalp and down to his neck and shoulders and he felt his aches and pains fading.  He was nigh to melting into her.  He probably moaned a couple of times – it felt sooo good.

“Now lie down and rest,” she told him softly, climbing out of the bed and helping him settle back down.  “Let me work on your feet.”  And the next thing he knew she was continuing her massage with each of his feet, working on different pressure points leaving him relaxed and calm.  It felt so good that if his blood had been sentient it would have rushed to his penis and he would have creamed off, but his blood being sluggish, he drifted off instead.

 **Waking Up**  

When he woke this time, the blinds had been drawn and the room left in afternoon shade.  The overhead fan had been turned on and a light breeze wafted through the room.  The apartment was quiet but, somehow, he sensed _she_ was still there.  He looked around, aware that the pain had greatly rescinded and he was able to sit up without cringing.  He spotted his cane, left leaning up against his nightstand. 

There was a note on it:  _Clean towels and clothes are in the bathroom._

Subtle hint that.  He lifted his arm and sniffed himself.  Yeah, pretty ripe.  He did need a shower, plus his mouth tasted like damp dog.  He grabbed the cane and gingerly gimped his way into the bathroom. 

The bathroom had actually been one of the selling points of the apartment.  It was quite large with a partially sunken tub (with working massage jets) set in one end in front of large window and in another corner, there was a separate shower. It was completed by a comfy sitting area that was positioned under some heat lamps.

He sat in his special chair in the shower, his damaged leg making it difficult for him to stand to get the soothing spray to run down his body.  But in the chair, the hot water poured over his head, his shoulders, oh, it was all good. He shampooed his hair and thoroughly washed himself off.  He also sat and brushed his teeth while still sitting under the warm spray.  Once out, he dried off and found clean clothes already laid out on one of the comfy chairs in the order he would need to put them on, underwear on top, pants, t-shirt, and socks, all on the chair in the bathroom.  He slowly dressed himself, discarding his dirty clothes onto the floor.  He limped out into the main room of his apartment.

It was a spacious place, with his bedroom, the large full bath and a smaller partial bath suitable for guests and visitors, a good-sized kitchen, a living room area, one smaller bed/office room and a very large open area facing the street.  The open area had floor to ceiling windows and he used it for his studio.  He looked around blinking his eyes against the bright afternoon sunlight. 

Things had been picked up in the living area and the kitchen.  It looked . . .  it looked . . . clean. 

“Well, there you are,” the little creature with the soft voice greeted him.  “Hungry?” she asked.

“Coffee?” he croaked, hopeful.

“Certainly.” And then she bustled herself back into the kitchen.  He followed her and had to stop and look around yet again.  The heap of empty and half-empty takeaway boxes was gone.  The piles of dirty pots and pans were gone.  The stacks of dirty plates and cups were gone.   The stash of processed little coffee cups was gone.  The floor wasn’t sticky.  He looked around. 

He didn’t remember that he had black granite counter tops and a large wooden butcher block island.  He didn’t remember he had an acid stained concrete floor and ultra-modern stainless steel appliances.

But there it all was. 

“It’s nearly three o’clock.  I thought you might be wanting something to eat,” she told him and proceeded to dip him out some soup from a large pot.  “I cleaned out your fridge and made a soup with the usable leftovers vegetables.”  She set the bowl on the little kitchen table.

He thought, _I’m up at three o’clock?  I had vegetables in my fridge?_

She opened a cupboard to get a fresh k-cup to brew him some coffee.  “Sugar, Splenda, milk, cream?” she asked.

“No,” he answered watching her blearily.

She had mousy brown hair done up in a messy bun and big blue eyes.  Layers of clothing encased her figure and he couldn’t tell if she was slender or dumpy _probably dumpy_.   She was very young.  Too young for him.

“Here you go,” she set the coffee down in front of him.  “Anything else?” she asked.

“Kahlua,” he told her.

Wordlessly, she went into another cupboard, a high cupboard, climbed onto his rickety step ladder and brought down the tall brown bottle.  He watched her from the corner of his eye, trim ankles, the skirt clinging to a shapely leg _okay, probably not too dumpy_.  She handed off the tall brown bottle to him.  He poured in a very generous amount and handed her back the bottle.  She returned it to the cupboard.

Seeing that he was settled in, she continued, “I need to wash your sheets.  I’ve already done a couple of loads of laundry but I’m ready for another.”  She started to go out the kitchen. 

“Wait,” he said and she stopped.  “Did you do this?” he gestured to the kitchen.

“I did,” she confirmed. 

And then she was gone.

He slurped the soup – pretty good stuff and drank his coffee.  He was feeling -- almost human again.  He walked back to his bedroom. 

 _She_ was in there, bustling about, making his bed up with fresh sheets.  She’d already whirlwinded through the bedroom, collecting his dirty laundry.  She was humming a pleasant little tune _oh god! she was humming_. She didn’t notice that he had come in and was watching her.  When she turned and came face to face with him, she stopped.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were there.  I should be finished in here in just a moment,” she told him brightly. 

He stood where he was, blocking her exit. 

“Miss,” he finally began.

She stood waiting.

“Who are you?” he asked.

She giggled.  She actually giggled. “I’m Belle French,” she told him.

That wasn’t enough. 

“Who . . . what . . . why are you here?” he finally formulated a question.

She smiled at him gently.  “You don’t remember, do you?”

He shook his head.

“You asked me to come here,” she answered.

“Did I propose?” he asked suspiciously, suddenly very much on guard.

“Oh, no, well, not marriage, if that’s what you’re asking.”  She was still smiling at him.  “My father is Maurice French, Moe French.”

She was met with a blank stare. 

She continued, “He owns the Crown of Thorns, the florist business on the ground floor.  He’s a bit in arrears for his rent.  You offered him a deal.”

_Oh lord, what kind of convoluted, sick, disgusting deal had he offered the florist?  Surely the old pervert wouldn’t have bartered his daughter for his rent?_

He took a breath and braced himself.  “Wha . . . what was this deal?”

“You said you needed a  . . . a caretaker.  And you wanted . . .  me.” 

His head had started to hurt again.  _How drunk had he been?_

“You would reduce my father’s rent if I agreed to move in here and keep your place clean, cook, and launder and such.  I would earn a salary and everything would be on the up and up,” she continued, explaining the arrangement he’d offered.

“A salary?” he asked.

“Oh yes.  You said a thousand a week, but,” she dropped her voice, “I really think you were very drunk when you made that offer.” She was still smiling at him.

“Oh yeah.”  He had a sudden thought, “Where did you move into?”  He was racking his brain as to where this little caretaker would be sleeping in his apartment.

“I’m in a little back room that I think you’ve been using for storage.  There’s an old sofa in there that will serve as a bed for the time being.  I’ll have to do some cleaning up, but I think it will work.”

“You’re in the back bedroom?”  That would never do.  Not that he ever used his back bedroom, but that would never do.  _He couldn’t have a young woman staying in his apartment._

“That’s where you shoved me last night,” she explained and went around him, arms full of dirty laundry.

“I did?!”  He had no memory of any of this. 

“Listen,” she told him as she continued on her way to the little laundry area off the kitchen.  He struggled on his cane to stay up with her.  “You really do need some help here.  This place was a complete sty.  I mean, I can understand clutter.  I can understand messiness.  But this place was filthy.  Rotting food, scum lines in the toilets, a layer of lord knows what on the kitchen floor, trash to the ceiling.  It was a health hazard.  And you certainly can’t afford to expose yourself to any more health risks.  Not given your lifestyle.”

She walked off while he was digesting her words.  It took him a moment.  “Whaaa? What do you mean, given my lifestyle?” he asked, trying to catch up to her and taking umbrage at the insinuation in her words.

She stopped what she was doing and looked hard at him.  “You were so drunk you don’t remember hiring a maid. You were so drunk it took you until past three in the afternoon to sleep it off.”  She closed the washing machine and set it to run.  She then reached down and was about to begin to empty the dryer.

He considered.  The place did look better.  But he had some things he had to get straight.  He couldn’t just have this little slip of a girl come in and take over. 

“Well maybe, maybe I have . . .  some issues.  It’s part of my artistic temperament,” he agreed reluctantly, ignoring when Miss French rolled her eyes.  “We need to have some guidelines, some rules . . . uh . . . some boundaries.”

She stood and waited.

And waited. 

She was very patient, giving him the gentlest of smiles. 

He was obviously floundering.

Finally, she sighed.  “Very good, sir.  When you think of what you want to say, let me know.” And she turned her attention back to the dryer bending over to remove the clothing.

He was momentarily distracted by a shapely rear, evident even through her layers of clothing. _Okay, definitely not dumpy._   He shook himself.  “Okay, listen.”  He felt like he needed to say something, anything.  “When I’m in my studio, you are, under no circumstances, ever, at any time, are you to interrupt me.  In fact, you are not allowed into my studio, not to sweep or dust or anything.  Understand?”

She looked at him quietly.  “As you wish, sir.”  And then she went on about her business.

“And I won’t tolerate being nagged about my. . .  my lifestyle choices.”  He was really feeling a need to at least appear to be in charge. 

“Of course, sir,” she called back to him as she left him stewing in the kitchen.

He checked and made sure she was otherwise engaged and then got a second helping of the soup.  He ate it over the sink.

**The Manager**

She didn’t even bother to knock, the door bursting open without any prelude. 

“Are you ready?” the woman called out after barging through the front door.  Belle peeked out from the hallway to see who had just blown in.  The woman was gorgeous, dressed completely in black, a killer chic LBD with black patent pointy-toed stilettos with no jewelry, no furs, just impeccable makeup and hair. She was stunning.

“Rum! Get your ass out here!” the woman called out and then she stopped, stunned.  “Oh, my lord!  What happened in here?  It looks like a clean bomb went off!”  At that point, she spotted Belle.  “Who are you?  You’re not his usual type.”

“She’s my maid, if you must know,” Rumson Stiltskin chose that moment to come out of his bedroom, now dressed in a dark gray Armani suit with a dark gray shirt and a silver tie.  There was a pop of burgundy in the jacket’s handkerchief pocket.  He had shaved right before dressing and combed his hair.  He was carrying a mahogany gold-tipped cane.

“Well, you look good,” the woman complimented him.  “Damn good.  I half expected you to be passed out on the floor of your bathroom lying in your own vomit.  Come on.  We’ve got that gallery showing to get to.”

“Miss French, I’ll be back very late.  Don’t wait up,” he called back to his maid.

Belle took a deep breath when the man stepped out of the apartment, feeling herself relaxing for the first time since late last night.

_She figured he’d gone out on a date – apparently, women dropped by the apartment to pick him up.  She sat down and took a deep breath._

_How had she gotten herself into all this?_

_She had known of this man by his reputation.  A genuine renaissance man – writer, musician, painter.  He’d made his mark on the world in all those occupations._

_Oh, she knew how she’d gotten herself into this.  Knew only too well._

 


	2. That was Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumson Stiltskin wakes from a drunken stupor to find that he’s hired an effervescent maid who’s begun to clean his large loft apartment and has provided him a superior hangover cure.   
> He has since left for an appointment accompanied by his stylish business manager.

Belle was now alone in the sumptuous apartment. 

It had been a taxing day and she sat down trying to relax and regroup.  Her life was in disarray and she had been clutching at straws and grasping at threads for way too long.  She’d watched her father spiral down after the death of her mother.  He’d just seemed to lose interest in everything -- everything except drinking.  Belle had struggled to manage the household while finishing high school and working a part-time job as a waitress in a diner owned by her best friend’s grandmother.  She had, through grit and luck, managed to make it through three-years of her four-year library science program at UNC but then her father had had his first heart attack.

She’d had to quit college to take care of him and manage what was left of his florist’s business.  It was not going well.  The shop had deteriorated into a state of genteel shabbiness.  She did the best she could – the business end of things was easy for her but she recognized that she did not have the artistic flair needed for the business.  Oh, she was able to stuff a box with a dozen roses but putting together a special bouquet for someone’s anniversary was not an easy thing for her.  Things always came out lopsided and her color combinations, while they worked well in her head, did not always look the most attractive. Her dad had recovered enough that he was beginning to be able to pick back up on a few of these tasks, but things were still not going well.

In fact, things were coming apart.   

Yesterday, she had been terrified that they would lose their lease because they could not make rent and, if that happened, their meager income would be gone.  She had been concerned that they would be out on the street.

But now her father had brokered this odd deal.  And it just might actually work for them. If Stiltskin would come through and pay her, they could have some extra money that they would save from their reduced rent and her salary.  She might, maybe, just maybe, be able to save enough to go back to college next term and finish her degree.

Oh, she had been concerned last night when the man had taken her by the elbow and ushered her up to his penthouse, top floor loft apartment in the building he owned.  He hadn’t spoken _she assumed he was too drunk and more focused on keeping upright than communicating_.  She’d been half concerned that he would try something but he’d simply pushed her into the little backroom and shut her in. 

She had ventured out early the next morning and found herself in a dark and deathly silent apartment.  She poked around, exploring things.  The place was a mess, a tangled, dirty, possibly dangerous, mess.  It was piled with trash, artist’s tools, half-finished canvases, random paperwork (including bills), clothing that had been dropped, fast-food wrappers (with and without food), half-filled drinking glasses, it went on and on.  It looked as if no one had picked up anything to throw it out or put it away in . . . well, forever.  She found herself watching where she stepped since she wasn’t always able to see floor or carpet beneath her feet.     

She checked on her employer and, after knocking and not getting a response, she hesitated. She then entered his bedroom to find the brilliant reprobate passed out on his bathroom floor.  She had managed, with considerable effort, to get him to come to enough to get him into his bed, walking under his shoulder to provide him the support the cane usually gave to him.  There she had partially undressed him, pulling off his shoes and socks, removing the shirt and the clearly pricey suit pants.  She had covered him up with a light blanket and then checked on him off and on until he came to enough for her Cure.

Meanwhile, she had begun the daunting task of beginning to clean the place up.  She had tackled the mounds of trash first, then the mountains of laundry.  She then began to really clean some surfaces, focusing on the kitchen counter tops and the kitchen floor.  Finished with these, she took a deep breath and tackled the fridge.  It was full of old take-away containers, most with very questionable food still inside paper or foam packaging.  She did find some tired carrots in the crisper _why ever had the man bought carrots?  Was there some alcoholic cocktail that used carrots as a garnish?_ There was also some lime juice, tomato juice and hot sauce.  And some sad wrinkled potatoes and pitiable dried-out onions were set in a basket nearby.  She searched the cupboards and the only other thing to eat she could find were some crackers.  There was a lot to drink, but everything was either coffee or some form of alcohol – everything from beer to wine to hard liquor.   She shook her head, checked on her charge and scurried downstairs to get her special hangover cure ingredients. 

She’d handled drunks before.  Her father struggled and some of her boyfriends had been known to indulge, so she wasn’t in over her head.  She knew they were addicts or wanna-be addicts.  She also knew they were liars.  They responded best to a firm, loving hand, much like working with a strong-willed two-year-old.

But this man was different, certainly different from her father, who was dealing with depression, and quite different from August The Writer, her last brief boyfriend, who was dealing with being an asshole.  This man was brilliant.  He was gifted, talented, an extraordinary individual.  At the moment, he was known primarily as a painter, but he had worked as a musician when he was younger (with musical scores in no less than three successful Broadway plays), had several bestselling books and somewhere, early on in his life, he’d found the time to garner a law degree. 

But he also was known for abysmal personal relationships, including one failed marriage and one well publicized affair with a woman who’d thrown him over for a richer guy.  The woods were full of rumors regarding his sexual activities, but doing his laundry had made her question this gossip. 

She’d found not the first shred of ladies’ apparel – no forgotten t-shirts, bras, undies, socks, no anything.  There was absolutely nothing suggesting that any woman had ever stayed the night – no toothbrushes, no Lady Suave deodorant, no feminine products. Maybe, he was one of those men who always stayed over at the woman’s apartment.   She also considered that he might be a closet gay – but why would an artist in Asheville bother to keep such thing a secret?  Gay artists were a dime a dozen.  Why would he have not come out by now if he were gay?  Besides, she’d caught him looking at her legs when she was on the ladder to get the Kahlua and checking out her ass when she’d bent over to get the clothes out of the dryer. 

Pretty sure he wasn’t gay.   

Even so, she had not found anything suggestive of condom usage when gathering up his trash (and there were no little foil packets in his pockets when she’d gone through them prior to tossing his jeans into the wash) which should have been there if he were sexually active with either gender (unless he was blithely stupid about STDs). 

No, she thought, he was just a train wreck when it came to relationships, a lot of reputation for sexual antics, but nothing that backed it up – all hat and no cowboy from what she could tell.

She yawned.  It had been a very busy day.  

Well, he’d said he’d be late and not to wait up for him, so she went back down to her father’s place.  She made sure he’d had some supper and helped him to bed.  For herself, she gathered up a few necessities and grabbed a shower (she was not going to use Mr. Stiltskin’s facilities until she’d had a chance to thoroughly shrub them down).  Back upstairs, she settled down on the hard little sofa that was in her bedroom and made a list of things she wanted to do around his apartment tomorrow (she’d need to talk him into funding a grocery trip – there was almost nothing to eat in the place).  Yawning again, she settled into sleep, planning on getting up bright and early in the morning.

 

**The Manager**

“Who is she?” Regina had asked him before they had hit the street to get to her car.

“Who?”

“Who else?  The little ‘maid.’”  Regina made air bunnies as she said ‘maid.’

“She’s my maid,” he insisted.  Responding to Regina’s disbelieving look he expanded, “I’m not boinking her.  She’s probably only . . .  what?  Sixteen?”

Regina laughed, “Oooh nooo.  That girl is very legal.  I’d guess in her early twenties.  How’d you come by her?”

“Uhhhh, I just . . .  her father owed me some money,” Gold began.

“Oh shit, he didn’t pimp her out to you, did he?” Regina asked.

“No, of course not!” he told her.  “I just made a deal to lower his rent if she’d come to work for me,” _At least I think that’s what I did._

“And her duties are . . . ?” Regina pressed him.

“What?!  Keeping the place clean!  What do you think?” 

“I thought perhaps she was required to attend to the _need_ s of the master, _all_ of his needs,” Regina was clearly enjoying herself.  She sighed, “And for a moment, I thought you had come to your senses and ditched my psychotic sister.”

“As far as your crazy sister goes, I promise you, I am being the worst boyfriend I know how.   I never call her, I blow off dates, I’m seen in public fondling other women.  Hell, I’d fondle you if I didn’t think she’d suggest a threesome. I can’t imagine why she puts up with me.  We’re not even having sex.  I keep telling her that using my sexual energy interferes with my creative juices.”

“And she’s buying that?” Regina asked him.

“Ask her.  She’s still sniffing around.  I can’t seem to get rid of her.”

“I tried to warn you.  She’s obsessed stalker crazy,” Regina cautioned him.

“Well, you were right . . . for once, for a change.”

“I’ve seen this with you before.  Listen Rum,” Regina got serious, “you know my theory about this.  Every time you get stressed out your creativity just dries up. And women seem to be major stressors for you.”

“I know you say that, but I don’t know if that’s really true,” he protested.

“Oh yeah.  Shall I count the ways?  Or more precisely.  Shall I count the women – all the _stressful_ women who have been in your life?” she cornered him.

“Oh, good grief!  You talk like I have a constant stream of women coming in and out, all taking advantage of my . . . personal services.  There have just been . . . uh, what? . . .  uh. . . my wife . . . then your mother. . . . and . . . and now your sister.”

“Really?  I’ve seen how women throw themselves at you -- certainly at least of few of them must have landed on your penis.  And don’t give me this ‘little ole’ innocent farm boy' routine. You bat those big brown eyes and women – and men, both fall over themselves.  Hell, I think you would have had me if you hadn’t thought I might be your daughter,” Regina finished up.

“Oh, I . . . I . . . I don’t know about that,” he nearly sputtered his denial.

“Perhaps.  But I know your history.  During great chunks of your times with your wife and then with my mother, you didn’t produce dick.  And with my toxic sister on the scene, you haven’t produced anything of note in the past nine months.”

He considered.  _When he’d met Milah, he’d fallen madly in love with her.  She was all sultry Spanish guitar and she tasted like Turkish coffee.   He was deep into his first career at that time, very young and very hot, having already written two successful Broadway plays, both of them upbeat, modern musicals, and Milah would have been happy if he had stayed on the music-writing career.  But he had suddenly tired of New York.  He wanted – he needed – something different.  There had been conflict with Milah and, even if he had wanted to keep writing music, there were no ideas and he didn’t produce anything._

_This was not what she had signed on for and she had begun to see others, discreetly at first but then her indiscretions were more flagrant.  When he had caught her in flagrante with a particular director (whom he’d always thought was an idiot) the marriage had ended. Following the divorce, he went into a deep funk . . .  well, more likely it was a clinical depression.  It was only his infant son that kept him going._

_He’d moved to North Carolina during that time, hoping to clear his mind and begin fresh.  He briefly worked as an attorney, but then, the painting urge hit him and when his day job working for the District Attorney’s office began to interfere with his increasingly lucrative hobby, he quit the day job.  His third career, as an artist, took off.  He quickly became known for his earthy interpretations of idyllic landscapes and nowadays that time in his life was known as his Peasant Period.  It had been a period of serious productivity._

_Then he’d met Cora and had fallen madly in love again.  She was all the smooth saxophone and the taste of spiced rum.   He began a series of portraits of her, ranging from the benign to the erotic.  It had been worthy of any Renaissance portrait artist and had garnered him an entirely new avenue of commissions.  But he struggled to complete anything, his flaming affair with Cora interfering with his work.  Only after she had dropped him for a rich industrialist did he begin to paint in earnest again. His work from this period was considered his best -- gloomy interpretations of landscapes and deep, sensitive portraits of people.  This had been dubbed his Dark Period._

_Now he was seeing Zelena – or perhaps he should say, she was seeing him.  She was Cora’s oldest child, born before his liaison with Cora.  She was tall and svelte and gorgeous, but also selfish, vindictive and spiteful.  Her notes were loud and sharp, like a off-key coronet and she tasted green.  He wasn’t sure exactly how he had started seeing her but he was in deep with her now.  He almost felt like she had some sort of hold over him – anyone else he would have just dumped and moved on.  But Zelena didn’t dump – she just ignored his attempts at breaking things off, attributing these efforts to his artistic temperament.  He was still being productive, but hardly producing anything inspiring._

_Maybe he should call this his Squat Period._

_So --  maybe Regina had a point – Regina who smelled like apples and sounded like gypsy guitar music.  Women were less an inspiration for him and more of a distraction._

He shook himself.  _How did he get to this moment of introspection?  He had been talking about his new maid._

“Whatever,” he told Regina exasperated.  “She’s just the help.” 

**The Next Day**

Belle stretched after a refreshing night’s sleep and rolled over to check the time.  _Seven o’clock._   Time to get up.  She went into the spare bathroom and washed her face and dressed: lightweight leggings with lace cuffs, a lacy tank top, a lacy slip, a pretty little girl style pink flowered dress and a large, serviceable apron made of soft blue linen that covered her while allowing her dress and slip to peek out.  She added some ankle socks with lacy trim and some round-toed clogs.  

She reviewed her chore list for the day.  Bathrooms, groceries and drycleaners, no particular order. 

She‘d check on her employer first, just to be sure he hadn’t passed out in the bathroom again.  She peeked into his bedroom.  With some relief, she saw he was alone.  And he was in the bed, splayed out face down on his bed, still in his dress clothes.  She shrugged and went on in, initially to be sure he was still breathing and not lying in his own puke and then to remove the man’s shoes and socks.  He whimpered and pulled his feet up, curling up on the bed. 

“Poor thing.  Looks like you’ll be needing my hangover cure again,” she murmured to herself.  She’d have to check in on him throughout the morning.

She went on into the kitchen and began her inventory of groceries on hand.  Little in the way of real food amid the booze and the K-cups.  She also made a list of cleaning supplies that she would needing. This didn’t take long.  Going into his bedroom to check on him several times, she also began gathering up his dry cleaning.  _Nice clothes.  Seems to have a preference for Armani.  There was also Gucci, Ralph Lauren and Burberry, among other high-end names._

_There was also an abundance of torn blue jeans and plain tee-shirt tops._

At ten o’clock he was still sleeping soundly, so she stealthily crept into his bathroom to begin the grimy task of cleaning this room.  After surveying the depth of goo, she opted to strip off her top three layers so she was left in her leggings and a skimpy lacy tank top to begin the distasteful task of cleaning his shower and his bathtub.  She recognized that she would need to get _into_ the offending areas, climbing into the tub and standing in the shower.  She also quickly realized that she could easily splash some of her bleach-infused cleaner on her clothes, so, after a moment of hesitation, she removed her leggings, ending up working in only her panties and the tank top. She finished up the tub and then started on the shower.

She was intent on scrubbing down the shower stall, spraying the area, then scrubbing things down again.  She would then turn on the spray to rinse the stall off.  Unsatisfied with her first efforts, she began again, soaking herself in the process.  She stepped out of the stall after the final rinse and turned around to find herself face to face with . . .

“Mr. Stiltskin!” Abruptly aware of her attire, her near transparent, clinging wet attire, she stood frozen.

“Miss French,” he greeted her -- unable to look away.  _Such a pert little figure, little left to the imagination.  Who would have suspected to find this treasure under all those layers of clothing?_ He finally gathered himself together to hand her a towel which she snatched from him and gratefully wrapped around herself.

“I’m  . . . I’m sorry, sir.  I was . . . uh . . . I was just cleaning your shower stall.  It was pretty grimy and I had to get in it and I . . .

“Miss French, I comprehend the situation,” he told her.

“I thought you were still asleep and wouldn’t be up for a while or I wouldn’t have come in . . .”

“I understand,” he reassured her.

“I hope I didn’t wake you up,” she said, her face still flushed with her embarrassment.

“No, my bladder woke me up,” he told her.

She stood still a moment before grasping the situation.   “Ooooh, of course.  I’ll just step out and leave you to . . . to take care of things.  Sorry sir,” she grabbed her clothes, ducked by him and ran out of the room.

Belle ran to the living room to redress herself.  _How could she face the man again?  She’d been all but naked with her dampened panties and wet lace top!_ She was trembling and thought it likely she had blushed all over her body.  She stood a moment waiting for embarrassment to actually kill her, for the ground to open up and swallow her.  Maybe she should just gather up her things and leave.

In the bathroom, once he’d relieved himself, Rumple staggered back to his bed with a delightful memory to savor.  Not a teenager, her body was too ripe.  A very attractive, well put-together young woman.  Lovely plump nipples and the lush curves he preferred.  Who would have thought there was all that lusciousness underneath all of those clothes? 

He certainly hoped she had not skedaddled in mortification.  At the moment, seduction was the farthest thing from his mind. No, at the moment, he wanted nothing more from her than some more of her fantastic hangover cure and, he hoped, another head and foot massage. 

“Miss French!” he called out wincing against the pain that went like a hot nail through his skull.  He nearly vomited.

He didn’t hear anything back right away and was gathering his grit to call out again, when, “Yes sir?”  And she ducked her head timidly into his bedroom.

“That hangover cure you gave me yesterday.  Would you be able to give me a second dose, please?” he asked as nicely as he could.

“Yes . . . yes sir.”

It took just a few moments before she was back.  He had stripped off his tie, his suit (jacket, vest and pants) and dress shirt dropping them on the floor in a heap. He was down to his undershirt and boxers.  She had re-dressed herself, layers and layers and layers of lace and linen – all vanilla and sweet roses, he thought.   Now she was carrying the glass of thick red liquid and the familiar slice of honeyed toast.  He swilled down ‘The Cure’ and took three bites out of the toast. 

“And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, the little massage you gave me yesterday was marvelous.” He was making an effort to be charming.

“Oh, yes sir,” she was blushing.  “I’ll have to get my Tiger Balm.  I’ll be right back.” 

And again, she disappeared but soon enough, she returned.  She hesitated but climbed on to his bed and kneeling behind him, began working her magic fingers across his forehead and temple. 

“This is fantastic, dearie,” he complimented her.  “It’s almost worth getting hammered for.”

She continued working along his scalp and down his neck.

“Listen, I’ve got an appointment coming in at three.  Can you get me up, say around two-thirty?”

“Of course, sir,” she told him, now working on his shoulders. 

“I probably won’t be very pleasant about it,” he warned her.

“I’ll screw myself up to the sticking point, sir,” she assured him.

 

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT: Rumple works with a client. Later a friend drop by. Belle fields a couple of phone calls.


	3. This is Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumson Stiltskin’s new maid is trying to pull her life back in order after dropping out of college to attend to her ill father. The money she can earn working for Stiltskin is giving her hope that things may yet work out for her. Rumple, as he is known to his friends, defends himself to his savvy, chic manager but does consider how women may have been an on-going distraction to his work. The next morning, he surprises his maid who has stripped down to clean his bathroom creating an awkward position for them both. Rumple has asked his maid to wake him at 2:30.

Soon enough, after massaging his head, neck and shoulders, Rumple waved Belle off and plopped down onto his bed.  She slipped off his bed and scurried out of the room.  She stopped to take several deep breaths. 

She was still feeling humiliated by his surprising her in her wet undies.

She had caught his look, the look he had given her before discreetly looking away.

No, he was definitely not gay. There had been some heat in that gaze.

Having to prep him the Cure-all and then massage him had restored some semblance of neutrality to the situation – although touching him raised some deep-seated sensitivities _and even deeper feelings_.  He had soft hair and strong neck muscles.  His skin was smooth and easy to touch. 

_Oh, but he was old enough to be her father.  He dated sophisticated women, rich women, well-educated women, like the one who had picked him up yesterday.  She was nothing like these women.  Plus, he was her employer and she absolutely did not want any complications in this relationship.  She was in it to earn an honest living and make some money so she could finish putting herself through school._

She shook herself.  _She should have asked him about grocery money._ She checked the time.  She decided she had time to run the dry-cleaning down the street. 

 

**2:30**

She gently knocked on his door.  She didn’t hear anything moving around.  She opened the door.  He was still sound asleep.

“Sir,” she called to him.  “It’s two-thirty.” 

He didn’t move.

“It’s time to get up for your appointment,” she said loudly coming over to him.

He moaned and shifted and went still.

She put her hand on his shoulder.  She gently shook him.  “It’s two-thirty.”

“Fuck!  She can just damn well wait for me,” he grumbled. 

“Do you want me to let you sleep a bit longer?” she asked.

He moaned again.  She could hear him breathing, a sharp exhale, like an angry sigh. 

“Crap, no.  I’m getting up,” he muttered.

“Shall I turn the lights on?” she asked.

There was no answer and she wasn’t sure he had heard. 

“Shall I . . . “

He interrupted, “Yeah, sure, what the hell.”  He rolled over and blinked.  “What the hell was I thinking making an appointment this early in the day?”  He stretched.  “Can you get me some clothes?” he asked her wiping some drool off his chin.  “Jeans and a t-shirt.”

She went into his closet and then into one of the dresser drawers, getting him fresh clothing.  “Not someone you want to impress?” she remarked as she handed them off to him.

“Someone who is employing me as an artist,” he answered.  “They expect the bohemian look, Birkenstocks, unshaven, old jeans and the tee.”

“I see,” she went to step out.  “Can I fix you anything to eat?” she asked.

“I’ll take a ham sandwich.  Just some mustard,” he told her.

“You’re out of ham . . . and bread . . . and, quite likely, mustard," she informed him brightly.  "I need some money for a trip to the grocery store.”

He was sitting up on the side of his bed by now.  “Oh yeah.  You are supposed to be cooking for me, aren’t you?” 

“There’s some of the soup I made yesterday in the fridge.  I can heat it up.”

“Soup?” he said, nearly retching.  He shook his head, “No, I’ll pass that up.”  He didn’t have the strength to argue about food. “Call La Strada, the number’s by the phone and have them send up a plate of lasagna.  I have a tab with them,” he told her.

She pulled a face but didn’t say anything.  “Grocery money?” she repeated. 

He reached for his wallet.  _Yeah, he had some cash left._ Wordlessly, he pulled a hundred from his wallet and handed it off to her.

And so Belle was gone when the fabulous Corella DeVries knocked on his door.  Corella was a wealthy woman, famous for being wealthy and for being . . .  Corella DeVries.  She was one of those women who always seemed to enter a room vagina first, making an entrance and following up with her furs and her honest-to-god cigarette holder.

“Darling Rumple, why on earth did we make this appointment at this ungodly hour?” she asked him.

“I must have been pissed at you,” he admitted.

“Well, whatever it was I did to you, we are now even.”  She looked around.  “Oh, my god!  What happened here?”

“What do you mean?” he asked leading her into his studio.

“This place is clean!”

 _It did look better, he had to admit._ “I hired a maid,” he told her.

“Well, she’s gifted.  Be careful, or I’ll steal her away from you,” Corella warned him going behind a screen and beginning to undress.

“I might let you.  She’s bossy and, I suspect, rather judgmental,” he began to get his materials together.

“Hardly deal breakers if she does the job well,” Corella told him from behind the screen.

“Well, she had some good points.  She’s got these sumptuously plump little nipples.”

“I’m not going to ask how you know that,” Corella told him.

“She got wet when cleaning my shower,” he explained offhandedly. “She also has this completely amazing hangover cure,” he started to get ready to work.

“You’re not making her less attractive.  Speaking of hangovers, make me a Gin Rickey, heavy on the gin, shy on the Rickey,” Corella told him.  She continued to undress behind a screen, draping her clothes over the top of the panes.  “Tell me, I take it she’s not some little grandmotherly type?”

“No, actually she’s an attractive twenty-something brunette.” Rumple began to prep the drink pouring the gin and locating the lime juice.

“Sounds like she might be your type.  Might be my type too,” Corella told him. 

“I’m not sleeping with her,” he said automatically, finishing off the drink.

Corella looked over the top of the screen at him.  “My, that was a quick denial.  Is she that attractive?”

“I . . . maybe . . . could be, I guess, if you like fresh-faced and perky.”

“Oh god, noooo.  You know I like dark and broody.  If you didn’t have a wanger, you’d be just my type.”

Rumple had to smile.  “Sorry, I’m rather attached to my wanger.”

Corella laughed at him coming out from behind the frame wrapped only in a silk robe.  “All you Y-Chromosome Impaired are.”  She reached for the drink he held out to her, sampling it. She toasted Rumple, “Excellent, as always.  If this painting thing ever falls through, I suggest you become a bartender.”  She headed for a chaise lounge already draped with burnt-out velvets and silken fringed throws.  She dropped the robe and positioned herself, texting into her phone as she got comfortable.   “I’m starting a pool.  When will Rumple bang his maid?  I’m sure Regina will join in.”

Rumple didn’t respond.  He looked Corella over as she lounged on the black velvet chaise.  “Oh yeah, I remember why we scheduled it for this time of the day.  This filtered afternoon light is best.  It makes you look ten years younger.”

“Really or are you just screwing with me?” she asked him.

“Really, Corie, it’s very flattering.”

“Thank you darling.  A girl needs to hear this type of thing often.”

Rumple turned on his music.

“What the hell are you listening to?” Corie asked him.

“It reminds me of you.  Korpiklaani -- it’s Finnish metal polka.  All right with you?” he asked.

Corie shuddered.  “Whatever helps you work.”

It was nearly four when Belle returned, carrying her recycled grocery bags up the stairs.  She propped them up in the kitchen and began putting things away.  It had been a real challenge to buy food for the man. 

Since he hadn’t given her any parameters regarding what to buy, she had used her own judgement.  Looking at his food preferences that had been evident when she’d cleaned out his fridge, the man lived on fast food, booze and coffee.   Well, she couldn’t condone any of that and had decided that she would hold to her own principals in preparing food for the old curmudgeon – lotsa real food, vegetables, whole grains, yummies for your tummy stuff.    

_Of course, he might end up firing her but she thought it worth the risk.  Maybe he would just drop the cooking duties.  She was an average cook at best._

Belle had finished putting away the groceries and stepped out of the kitchen into the living room area.  From this point, she could see up the single step that led to the studio. 

And she could see what was going on in the studio.

“Oh, my stars!” Belle covered her eyes and stepped away from the studio area.  There was a naked woman reclining on the sofa and Belle turned back into the kitchen in absolute embarrassment. 

Corella and Rumple had both turned at Belle’s exclamation.

“Oh, darling, is that your maid?” Corella asked.  “She is a precious little thing!  Just adorable.  I supposed what we’re doing is too debauching for her innocent eyes.  Do you need to go attend to her?”

Rumple considered and shrugged, “No, I’ve asked her not to interrupt me when I’m in the studio.  And you still have fifteen minutes before your time is up.  And I want to finish your eyes – they’re less bloodshot than usual and I want to get them while the gettin’s good.”

“Surely,” and Corella settled back down. 

Belle had retreated to the kitchen and now, she felt trapped in the room.  She had put herself into the walk-in pantry and, after calming down, had decided to focus on re-organizing this room until it was safe to come out. 

_Good lord, she had not expected to find a naked woman in the apartment._

_Not like they had been up to anything.  He was apparently painting her portrait – her nude portrait._

She looked around the pantry she had corralled herself into.  It did not contain foodstuffs.  Instead, the man had apparently used it like a storage closet for random . . . _stuff_.  There was hiking gear and photography gear and old paperback books and boxes of paint tubes and more liquor bottles.   Things were jumbled together.  It was a microcosm of the rest of the apartment – random boxes of crap piled on random boxes of other crap, she thought peevishly.    

 _There were probably also spiders and (oh, let’s hope not) contraband, like drugs and such that he had crammed into this room.  The man did have a reputation for depravity._ She began sorting through the materials she found.

She’d been there for a while, separating out the good stuff from the trash _most of it was trash_ when there was a tap on the door. 

“She’s gone.  The mean, naked lady has gone.”

She gave a sigh of relief and came out of the pantry.  “I’m so sorry.  I know you didn’t want to have your work interrupted but I had no idea.  I didn’t know you were doing a painting and I’m not a prude but it was rather shocking to find you with a nude woman and I didn’t think and I couldn’t help myself and . . . and, I’m so sorry,” she talked rapidly, embarrassed and nervous.

“Got it,” he told her.  “Maybe we should work out a signal or something. I hang a sock on the door or  . . .”

“You could just tell me . . . but the sock on the door is probably a good idea also,” she confirmed. 

He watched her patiently as she continued to bustle around the kitchen. 

“Supper?” she finally asked him.

He shook his head, lost in thought.  “Hold on,” and he disappeared back into the open studio.  He dug through the paperwork on his desk and pulled out a planner.  He turned several pages and found the current date.   He brought it back into Belle.

“Why don’t you start keeping my calendar?  I have a lot of appointments and places I’m supposed to be and things I’m supposed to do and people I’m supposed to be with.”

“How are you keeping track of things now?”

He shrugged.  “I’m not.  I miss a lot,” he confessed.  “People who know me, well, they know I’m a drunk.  They will call to remind me or they send someone to get me or they luck out and I just happen to remember.”

“You don’t have anything written down?” she asked _appalled._

“Maaaybeee.  Maybe I have some things in my phone.” When she held out her hand, he sighed but then gave it over to her. 

She pulled one of his metal and wood barstools up to his butcher block workstation and began to systematically go through his calendar on his phone transferring the handful of appointments that he did have recorded onto the desktop calendar.  She then looked up at him. 

“Now tell me what appointments you remember that you have,” she directed him.

He began to think.  “Well, there’s a thing tonight.  It’s a gallery opening for one of my best friends.”  He sat down on the stool next to hers.

“Time?”

“”Uhhhh,  I think, eight?” 

“All right.  Any others?”

He thought.  “I’ve got something Friday, but I’m not sure what  . . . or where . . . or what time.”

She closed her eyes and rubbed her nose bridge.   “All right.  From now on, either you write things down or you tell people to call me so that I can get it on your calendar.  I can’t remind you about an appointment that I don’t know about.”

“Okay,” he agreed.  “I’ll do my best.”

He seemed rather cavalier about the whole thing.

Belle glanced up at him.  “I cannot make bricks without straw.  The system can only be as good as the information I’m given to work with,” she admonished him sternly.  She laid down the pen and got back up to finish with the few groceries that were still left out.

He couldn’t stop himself from watching her move about.  She was lovely – aggravating -- but lovely.

“So you’ll get a meal out tonight and you have nothing scheduled for tomorrow,” she confirmed as she sorted through vegetables.

“Right.  I’m supposed to be working on a couple of things.”

“And do you want me to get you up tomorrow?”

It was a perfectly innocent question, but his mind immediately shoved him toward a misinterpretation.  _She could certainly get him up tomorrow.  She could easily get him up tonight. Hell, if either one of them put any effort into it, she could probably get him up right here on the kitchen stool._   He had to stop himself from making a completely inappropriate response.   “Uhm. . .  Tomorrow?  Yeah.  Why don’t you get me up about four this time?”

“Yes sir,” she told him. 

He bummed around in the studio for a while, then went into his living room, sat on the sofa _noting he didn’t have to shove aside any paperwork or clothing_ and channel surfed on the television _noting he had no problems locating the remote on the little coffee table in front of him_ , and eventually he got up to shower and change for his evening appointment.  When he came out, Belle could see that he had changed into one of the really very nicely tailored Armani’s, medium grey with a black shirt and silver tie.  He’d shaved again _and had used some kind of spicy, woodsy aftershave_ and was sitting on the sofa putting on his shoes when there was a knock on the door.

Belle opened the door and was face to chest with a tall, handsome young man. 

“Well, so it’s twue, it’s twue!  All the rumors are true,” the young man said.  He looked past Belle to Rumple.  “You got a hot maid.”

“Belle, this is a lying, cheating, fast-talking reprobate, given to seducing naïve, innocent young women and the occasional impressionable young man, and he is probably my best friend -- Jefferson Madden,” Rumple made the introduction from the sofa.  “It’s his show I’m going to.  Moral support.”  Rumple stood and came over.  “He’ll need it.  He’s doing this abstract thing at the moment.  Looks like a mad person has been at the easel.”

“Gee, thanks,” Jefferson said keeping his eyes focused on Belle.  He spoke rapidly to her,  “Listen, I should be free after midnight.  Why don’t you abandon this loser and meet me in my place?  I’ll give you the building code.  If you show your breasts to the doorman you won’t have to tip him.  Well, it’s not really the doorman, it’s the wino that lives in the stairwell.  Oh, and bring a loaf of rye bread.”  He peppered Belle with commands.  Then he looked over at Rumple.  “I’m in the pool.”

Rumple closed his eyes.  _Damn.  Corie didn’t take any time at all._

“Pool?” Belle asked.

“It’s a pool to see how long you put up with working for me,” he explained, leading Jefferson out of the apartment.

Belle shook her head and shut the door behind them.  She was rapidly getting a sense of a general smarminess in Mr. Stiltskin’s acquaintances; she might have thought the pool would have been for something like how soon he’d sleep with her. 

She considered her chores for the coming day. 

 

**His Best Friend**

“Good lord, she is quite the tasty little croissant!” Jefferson was going on about how attractive the maid was.

“I wouldn’t know.  She’s just my maid,” he reiterated _for the umpteenth time._

“Oh, come on now.  You have to have noticed that perfect skin, those gorgeous eyes, that cute little figure.”

“I’ve noticed but I don’t have to try to hump every cute little figure that comes across my path,” he said sourly.  _Next time, if there was ever a next time, he would hire a truly ugly maid._

“Since when?” Jefferson asked him.

“You have a grossly exaggerated notion of my sex life.  You and Regina both think I have this constant stream of women coming in and out, all taking advantage of my personal services. You know, Regina’s on my case to get me to stay away from women – that they stress me out.  I think she’s got this idea that when I’m getting laid, I don’t produce anything.”

Jefferson considered.  “Could be, maybe.  I’m just the opposite.  The more jay-jay I’m getting, the better my work.”

Rumple did not respond to this particular remark.  He did however envy Jefferson’s easy style and relationships with women.  They seemed to flock to him and the man went in and out of affairs with some of the most beautiful women Rumple had ever seen.  And he always managed to have the women tearfully dump him so he was never the bad guy – not to mention the next time they had boyfriend problems they would drunk dial him and he would get to re-connect with them and offer them ‘comfort.’

**Callers**

Belle had been there a couple of days and she was working sorting things out in the kitchen drawers.  It was late in the afternoon and Mr. Stiltsin was working in his studio when her bff called. 

“Where have you been?” Ruby had demanded to know.

“Got a new job.  I’m still close to my dad and can check on him a couple of times a day,” Belle told her.

“Whatcha doing?”

Belle hesitated.  _She wasn’t ashamed of doing honest, menial labor, but . . . well, maybe a little.  But the pay was good._ “I’m . . . I’m working as a maid,” she confessed.

There was silence on the other end of the phone.  “Pay is good?” Ruby finally asked.

“Yeah, it’s really good.  And it’s just for maid services, except for a little cooking,” Belle told her. “And it’s in the building where dad’s place is.”

“Really?  Who lives in that building who could afford to hire a maid?”

“It’s the owner of the building.  He lives on the top floor,” Belle was half-way hoping Ruby wouldn’t remember who lived in the building.

“Oh, my god!  You’re working for Rumson Stiltskin!  The composer and artist?  Wow!  What’s he like?”

 “He’s . . .” Belle hesitated.  _What should she say?  He’s a drunken sot who is pissing away his talent.  He’s a pig who can’t carry a glass to the sink?  He’s a foul-mouthed, degenerate who has no self-respect._ “He’s . . . a handful, but he sleeps most of the day and he’s gone most evenings.”

“So how hot is he?” Ruby asked.

“He’s usually dirty or drunk or hungover, so that does kind of kill any attraction,” Belle lied.  _But when he cleans up and dresses in a suit . . . da-amn._ She shook her head.  _But, if she were honest with herself, he was a nine, even when dirty, drunk and hungover._

“Are you doing him?” Ruby had asked.

“Oh no, Ruby.  He’s twice my age . . .”

“Well, sometimes those older guys know a lot.  They’ve got the whole experience thing going for them.”

“Well, I’m not doing him.  I’ve no intention of doing him.  And,” the thought suddenly occurred to her, “don’t you dare start a stupid pool as to when I start doing my boss.”

“You are no fun, no fun at all.  Well, glad you’re still with us, anyway.  Can you get off Thursday night, put it on your calendar.  Girl’s Night.  The Green Dragon.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Belle promised.  "We really hadn’t discussed me having time off.”

“Well, he can’t expect you to work for him twenty-four/seven, can he?”

 _Yes, he can,_ “I’ll see if he has anything that he’s going to want me to do,” Belle told her.  She hung up.

There had also been another call – _one she almost didn’t answer._

“Hey babe. You up?”

“Not interested, Keith,” she told the caller.

“Oh, come on, it’s been a couple of weeks.  You can’t still be mad.”

“I’m not mad.  I’m just not interested.  Please, don’t call me again,” and she hung up. 

That was unnerving.  She’d gone out with Keith just the one time but he’d made her nervous.  He was a big guy and used his size to intimidate.  She had to tell him, “no,” several times before he got the message and then he’d made the assumption that she was on her period (he couldn’t imagine that any woman wouldn’t jump as the chance to sleep with him).  Belle had tried to be nice, to let him know that she wanted a relationship before she would consider having sex with a man but he seemed to respond to this as her just trying to “act the lady” and that she didn’t really mean it.  That had infuriated her and she had called her best friend Ruby to come and get her from the bar.  Ruby had shown up with her boyfriend _du jour_ , James Whale, a promising medical student, and had rescued her.

But Keith would still call from time to time.

Before took a deep breath but before she could return to task, there was a knock at the door.  Belle had peeked through the viewer and could see an older man standing with his hands in his pockets.

“Who is it?” Rumple had called out to her from his studio.

“A man – older.  Should I open the door?” she asked.

Rumple hesitated.  “Is he wearing a green coat?”

Belle peeked again. “Yes sir,” she called back.

“Damn, shit, fuck,” Rumple muttered.  “I’ll take care of this.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rumple deals with a couple of unwelcome visitors.  
> Belle prepares a meal for Mr. Stiltskin.


	4. Unwelcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle has met two of Rumple’s more outrageous acquaintances. One of them has begun a pool as to when he will consummate a relationship with his pretty maid.   
> Someone has come to the door and now, Rumple will have to deal with a couple of unwelcome visitors. Later, Belle prepares a meal for Mr. Stiltskin.

Rumple was clearly most unhappy with the arrival of this latest visitor.

Before opening the door, he glanced over at Belle.  She was dressed in her typical attire, a very lacy underslip topped by a buttoned-up frock that looked as if it was composed of vintage handkerchiefs.  She wore socks with lace on their cuffs and what he thought were some ugly brown and very plain clunky shoes.  _But she still looked as if all her girl parts worked and he didn’t want to impose this particular ‘guest’ on her._

“Why don’t you go and do . . .whatever it is you do in the back of the apartment,” he suggested with a wave of his hand. 

Belle nodded.  _What was up with that?_ She scurried back to his bedroom and began to straighten his closet, putting together jeans with jeans and long sleeved shirts with long sleeved shirts, giving it all some order.  Initially it was quiet but shortly she began to hear raised voices.  The visitor and Mr. Stiltskin were arguing.  She stopped and listened.  _It was hard not to listen._

It sounded rather nasty and she was beginning to wonder if she needed to call someone – like the police. 

She could hear snatches of their conversation.  They were arguing about money, at least that was one of the bones of contention.  Lifestyle choices was another concern.  Women, ah yes, there were remarks regarding women, some of them quite vulgar.  Then things got quiet.

Too quiet. 

Belle was genuinely concern that they had come to blows and one of them had knocked out the other.  She peeked around the corner and saw that both men were seated and drinking.  The man who’d been at the door was facing her and caught a glimpse of her when she peeked out at them.

“Oh my, Rum, who is this little trinket you had hiding in the back room?”

Rumple glanced behind himself and spotted Belle.  He wasn’t pleased she’d revealed herself.  “This is Miss French.  She’s my maid.”

The other man stood and gave her a short bow, “Miss French.  So, you’re the one responsible for the much improved state of my son’s apartment.”

“Miss French,” Rumple spoke to her without turning around.  “This is Malcolm Stiltskin.”  There was a moment.  “He’s my father.”

Belle gave the older man a small smile and hesitated, not knowing what to do next.

“Please, come out and join us.  No doubt my son was trying to hide you from me.”  The older man smiled – he might have been charming once, but there was a ne'er-do-well vibe, the sense of a dissolute, even wasted life, coming from the man and Belle, reacting on an instinctive level, was repelled.  She retained her manners, however. 

“Thank you, sir, but I have some duties to attend to.”

But it was too late and the older man had already walked over to her and taken her hand, pulling her out into the living area.  He sat her down and poured her a drink of the same whiskey the two men were drinking.

“You must tell me how you met my son and how ever did he convince you to come to work for him,” the man encouraged her.

Belle glanced at Rumple who sat impassively. 

“My father owed him some rent and Mr. Stiltskin was kind enough to work out an alternate arrangement,” she told the older man.

“Alternate arrangement?  Indeed.  Good going there, Rumple.  Didn’t think you had it in you still.  Thought Cora had pretty well gelded you.”

“I’m not shagging the maid, father.  She just keeps the place clean.  As you can see, she’s doing a great job.”

“Right,” the older man appeared to agree but then he winked at Belle.  “Tell me, dear,” he was talking to her again.  “Are you available for other . . . ?”

“She’s not, father,” Rumple answered for her. 

“Give her a chance.  Here, let me refresh your drink,” and Stiltskin Senior poured more whiskey into her glass. 

“Don’t keep trying to get her drunk,” Rumple warned him.

“Oh, lighten up.  I’m sure she’s worked hard all day and could use a break.  Especially if you’ve been home here with her – then I’m _sure_ she could use a break.”

“I’m quite fine, sir,” Belle assured the man.  She turned to Rumple, “I’ll just go and wipe down the kitchen cabinets and sweep the floor unless there was anything else you needed me to do.”

He locked eyes with her.  “That sounds like a good plan, my dear.  Check the calendar and let me know what time I need to get up in the morning.”

Belle stood and the older man stood.  She knew he was looking her over and when she walked to the kitchen she couldn’t help but feel as if he was checking out her rear end. 

_So this was Mr. Stiltskin’s father!  It was clear the two didn’t get along.  She also recognized that she had taken an instinctive visceral dislike to the older man._

_He made her feel dirty._

Belle let her employer know that he had no appointments for the following day, although there was one for the day after.   She then finished up in the kitchen.  As quietly as she could, she made her way past the living room back to her own room.  The two men were still drinking and talking.  They didn’t sound like they were still arguing.  Belle shut her door and, for the first time that she had been staying in Mr. Stiltskin’s apartment, she wished she had a lock on the door.

**Morning**

When she got up the next morning, she tiptoed out.  She stopped and peeked in Mr. Stiltskin’s room.  He was lying face down, fully dressed, his usual position, fast asleep.   She closed his door and went on her way to the kitchen. 

And there, on the sofa, was the older man.  He appeared to be asleep and Belle did her best not to wake him.  She went on into the kitchen to make herself breakfast. 

It was likely the coffee that did it.  Belle was intent on reviewing Mr. Stiltskin’s calendar and making out her chore list for the day and didn’t hear anyone come in to the kitchen behind her.  The first thing she knew was that someone had put hands on her waist and was turning her around.  She found herself standing, front to front, with Mr. Stiltskin Senior. 

“Sir,” she greeted him, “Good morning.  May I fix you some coffee? breakfast?” She tried to move away but he had a firm grip on her.

“Oh honey, a sweet thing like you is more than enough breakfast for me,” and he leaned in to plant a kiss on her.  Belle flailed her hands behind her and grabbed the first thing that came to hand.  It was the lid for the iron skillet that she used to cook eggs.  She brought it up against the side of the man’s face using it like a cymbal.  He staggered and stepped back. 

“Let’s try this again.  May I fix you some coffee or breakfast?” she asked firmly.

“Well, you are quite the spitfire,” the man managed to gasped out, holding the side of his head _likely still ringing_.  “I’m sure my son has his hands full with you in his bed.”

“Coffee?  Breakfast?” Belle repeated.

The older man sighed, “Please, I guess.  Coffee and . . . any sweet rolls?”

“I can make you some cinnamon toast and fry up some apples,” she told him as she began to prep the coffee.

“That sounds good,” he grumbled and sat down at the kitchen island. 

Belle knew he was watching her but he didn’t make any further moves.  She was surprised when she dished out the apples to see her own Mr. Stiltskin standing in the kitchen door.  He was disheveled and only half awake.

“Sir, you’re up early,” she said, surprised.

“I was concerned about the safety and well-being of my maid,” Rumple said, glaring at his father.  “Are you all right?” he asked Belle.

“I’m fine.  Your father may have a bit of a bruise on his face.”

“She hit me with the pot lid,” the older Stiltskin muttered.

“Problem?” Rumple asked her.

“I managed it,” Belle replied blandly.

Rumple smiled.  “Good girl,” he said to Belle. 

“Listen, after you said there was nothing going on between you two, I thought it was worth a shot,” his father said by way of an apology.  “I mean I understood that there was nothing serious going on here and . . .

She heard Rumple’s sharp intake of breath and he interrupted his father, “Miss French is my maid – and sometimes my cook.  That is all she does here.  That is all she is _required_ to do here.”

“Well, jeez,” Stiltskin Senior complained.  “Why bother having a fine piece like this in your house if you’re not going to take advantage of what she can offer?  Somebody ought to be seeing to her.”

“Father,” Rumple began slowly.  “I agreed to lend you the money you asked for.  And when I say ‘lend,’ I mean ‘give,’ because I never expect to see it again.  I let you spend the night here because, as you told me, you had ‘nowhere else to go.’  And it seems as if my maid has generously offered you breakfast, but,” and Rumple looked his father in the eye, “if you put another hand on her or insult her, I’ll withdraw my offer of money and kick you out on the street.”

His father smirked.  “I get it now.  Sure.  I mean no offense.  I will be getting out after I’ve had a couple of bites of food and you won’t be seeing me again,” he promised.

Rumple sighed, “If only I could count on that.”

“Hey, I promise.  This will be the last time I need your help.  This deal is sure-fire,” Stiltskin Senior insisted.

“Like your last fourteen last-time sure-fire deals you’ve had me help you out with,” Rumple muttered.  He shook his head and left the kitchen. 

The older man and Belle watched him go and then Stiltskin returned his attentions to Belle.

“I really am sorry.  My son . . . well, I haven’t been the best father – you probably figured that out.  But he turned out well, don’t you think?”

Belle paused.  She opted to just give a nodding response.  _What?  If you think turning out well means you struggle to have a mature, loving relationship with another person and you have to drown your pain in alcohol – well then, yes, your son turned out well._

Things were much quieter after Malcolm Stiltskin left.  Rumple came out from the bedroom after two and sat in the kitchen watching Belle as she cleaned around the baseboards of the room.  He was nibbling on toast and drinking coffee.

“I’m sorry about my father,” he finally said. 

“You aren’t responsible for his actions,” she told him.

“But I let him in the apartment.”

Belle looked up.  “He’s your father.”

“He abandoned me with some of his great aunts when I was eight.  He promised me he would come back and get me when he got back on his feet but, as you can see, he never quite got back on his feet.”

“He just comes around then, when he needs money?” she asked him.

“Pretty much.  And I usually give him some.”

Belle stood.  “I guess, you aren’t quite willing to completely cut him out of your life?”

“I guess.  Can’t tell you why, unless it’s just as simple as he’s family.”

Belle agreed.  “Perhaps, it is just that simple.”  _She’d wanted to ask him about his relationship with his mother but it didn’t seem quite the right time._

**The Day After**

They did seem to have fallen into a routine _aside from the occasional uninvited guest_.  It was late in the afternoon and Belle found herself looking around.  The apartment was at least surface clean.  She’d gotten every floor, every surface, every corner cleaned, papers picked up, garbage thrown out, and she was now beginning to work on drawers and closets, going through each area systematically.  Mr. Stiltskin would typically sleep in until at least two, often four, in the afternoon.  He would stumble out and eat whatever she had prepared for him, grab a shower and slowly begin his day, almost always going out somewhere for the evening, sometimes alone, sometimes with others.  Most days he was hung over and welcomed her cure and treatment.  Every so often, he was not.  They barely exchanged more than a few words – except on those rare days when he decided to be chatty.

He’d gone out this particular day, having mumbled something about an appointment to see Regina, whom, she had learned, was his business manager, about some stupid, hair-brained project she wanted to get going.  Belle was cleaning out from under the man’s bathroom sink.  It was a gruesome, unpleasant job and she knew she was likely looking frazzled. 

She heard the doorbell and struggled out to the front of the apartment.  She opened it and was face to face with a gorgeous brunette.   _Another uninvited guest._

“Who the hell are you?” the woman asked.

“I’m Belle French.”

“Where’s Rumple?”

“He’s out on an appointment.  May I help you?” Belle asked the rude woman.

The woman pushed by her to come on into the apartment.  “I need to see him.” The woman made herself at home and poured herself a drink.  She sat down and pulled out her phone. 

Belle closed the front door, unsure of what she needed to do. 

“I don’t know when he will be back.  I could take your number and have him call you when he gets in,” she proposed.

The other woman laughed, “Yeah, like he’d return a phone call to me.  He’d probably call his mother before that happened.  No, darling, I need to wait for him. I came prepared.”

“Can I call him and let him know you’re here?” Belle tried again.

“No way.  If he knows I’m waiting for him, he’ll never show.”  The woman turned on her.  “Who are you, anyway?   You’re not his type.”

“I’m Belle French,” Belle repeated her name. 

“Are you his current trollop?”

“No ma’am,” Belle answered.  “I’m his maid.”

“Oh, well, that does explain why the place looks so tidy.  Rumple always was such a pig,” the woman told her.  The woman settled in with the television remote.  She didn’t give Belle another glance except to grouse, “Does the man not get Acorn?  I’m binge watching _Cracker.”_

“Yes ma’am, do you want me to set it up for you?” Belle asked and took the remote the other woman wordlessly handed to her.   After setting up the woman with her show, Belle quickly retreated to the bathroom.

Making sure the other woman was involved, Belle dialed Rumple.

“What?!” he answered his phone sharply.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Belle spoke quietly.  “There’s a woman here at the apartment who wants to see you.  She won’t give me her name.”

“What does she look like?” he asked.

“She’s very pretty, dark brown hair, dark eyes.”

“A perpetual look of disapproval and disappointment on her face?”

Belle considered.  “Yes sir.”

“Sounds like my ex-wife.”  Belle could tell that Rumple was hesitating.  “I hate to leave you to deal with her . . .” he was still hesitating.  “I know her.  She won’t leave until she gets to me.  I’ll be there as soon as I can.  I have to finish up with Regina here.”

“Thank you,” Belle told him but he had already hung up.

She sat on the floor in front of the undersink cabinet.  She sighed and began taking things out.  Some of the items went into the garbage, some needed to go to another location and some few things went back under the sink.  She’d been there only about twenty minutes when she heard the door to the apartment open. 

“Milah!” she heard Rumple and decided to peek out to see what was going on.

“Rumple,” the woman replied unenthusiastically.  “I need more money,” she said without preamble.

“Gee, you might could have at least offered me a blow job before demanding money,” he complained.

“Aren’t you getting all that and more from your little maid?” Milah asked him.

_Belle realized that Milah had assumed that she was . . . she and Mr. Stiltskin . . . that they were . . ._

“We have a comfortable arrangement,” she heard Rumple answer his ex-wife.

There was some huffing and Belle had to lean further out to see what was going on. Milah was sitting with her back to Belle but Rumple was facing her.  He glanced up and Belle knew she had been seen. 

“Kinda young for you, isn’t she?” Milah asked acerbically.

“She keeps me in line,” Rumple told her. 

Belle shook her head.  Rumple was just allowing the woman to assume that she was sleeping with him. He'd said nothing that wasn’t true but it was the way that things were being communicated. 

She heard her name, “Miss French,” Rumple was calling her. 

“Yes sir,” she answered and came around the corner, although she didn’t go on into the room. 

“Could you please get me one of your sodas.  One of the peach ones.  Milah? Would you like a homemade soda?  Miss French makes several delicious flavors of drinks.  Right now the peach is my favorite, but the dark cherry is good and, oh yes, her cherry lime is fantastic.”

“Fuck that,” Milah told him.  “Just refresh my drink.  I was having some of your whiskey.” And she held out her glass.

Belle had scurried by to get to the kitchen.  She knew Rumple would take care of pouring the woman a second drink.

She could hear them talking in the kitchen.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” Rumple asked his ex-wife softly.

“It’s Killian,” she told him. 

“Of course, it is.  It’s always Killian,” Rumple agreed.  “Listen Milah,” he began, “you get a generous allowance every month . . . ”

“Killian wants to do a new play.”

There was a pause.  “Great.”

“It will be.  This is based on one of the first books to be placed on trial for obscenity, _Jurgen, a Comedy of Justice._   A brilliant book.”

“I’ve read it,” Rumple remarked blandly.

“Well, then you can see how it would lend itself to a big production with dance sequences and songs and . . . and . . . and, well it would be great.”

There was quiet for a moment before Milah continued.  “You probably know that Killian’s last couple of ventures did not do so well and . . . uh . . .”

“He couldn’t get arrested if he peed on stage.”

“He’s ahead of his time.  His work isn’t appreciated,” Milah defended him.

“How much do you want?”

Belle didn’t hear what she said and peeked around the corner.  Milah had evidently written down a sum and passed it over to Rumple.

“Shit,” was all that he said after reading the note.  He looked up at his ex-wife.  “If you want this much, Milah, there will have to be some strings attached.”

“But you’ll consider it.”

“I want to see the script, review the songs.”

“Of course.  I’m sure, that Killian would even be happy to accept any suggestions, or . . or .  original work you might want to contribute.”

“Uh huh, I’m sure he would,” Rumple told her.  “There’s more.”

“What?”

“If this works out, I’ll want a percent of the profit.  This will be an investment, not a loan, not a gift.”

“I think we can work something out,” Milah was agreeable.

Rumple hesitated, “And I want you two to get married.”

There was no response. 

“No more alimony then?” Milah asked.

“No more alimony.  But, hell, if this is successful, you won’t need my money anymore.”

There was a long pause, then, “All right.”

“This won’t be a handshake kind of thing.  I’ll look over the play and I’ll get Regina to review his business plan and if she approves, we’ll draw up a contract and I’ll give you a check.”

Milah considered.  “I guess we could do that.”  Milah finished her drink and stood.  “I’ll get back with you, all right?”

“Absolutely.”

Milah stopped on the way out, “Oh yeah, it’s pretty obvious that you aren’t doing her.  And by the way, I’m in the pool.” 

Belle heard a muttered, “Fuck,” as Milah stepped out of the apartment. 

**Thursday**

It was four in the afternoon.  Belle had been dutifully working in his pantry, clearing out everything, sorting things and putting stuff back in the pantry, in some other location or throwing stuff out.  Earlier in the day, she had checked on her employer several times, but he seemed to be sleeping soundly.  She’d fixed herself a little lunch, a cheese, avocado, sprouts and tomato sandwich and gone back to work. 

At four, she had tapped on his door.  “Mr. Stiltskin, sir.  It’s four.”

“Okay,” he heard him call out.  She could hear him stumbling around and then heard the shower.  It wasn’t long before he came out, looking refreshed.  He’d dressed in jeans and black t-shirt.  “I’m without hangover this afternoon and I’m hungry.  Anything to eat?  I think I’d like breakfast,” he told Belle.  She had a full fridge at her disposal this afternoon and was able to nod when he made his request.

“Give me just a moment, sir.”  While she was prepping him some food, he went out to his studio and looked at his half-finished paintings.  Most were portraits he was actively working on. A few were works from his own heart.  But nothing was inspired.  He recognized that he was in a slump. 

Pretty soon other people, other people besides Regina, would start to notice.

He went back into the kitchen and sat down.  He idly sketched Belle while she worked, filling a page in his notebook with a pencil drawing. 

Belle set a cup a hot coffee before him.  The bottle of Kahlua was set down next to him.

“Bailey’s this afternoon, please,” he told her.

She nodded and made the exchange, then returned with a plate of food.

He looked down at the pretty plate before him.  As an artist, he could thoroughly appreciate a well put together plate of food.  It appeared to be some kind of scrambled eggs with onions and peppers and mushrooms and other things.  A little salsa on the side.  He tasted it.  It was delicious.

“This is really very good,” he told her looking up from his plate.  “These eggs taste different though.  Perhaps it’s because I’m not nursing a hangover.”  He went back to forking them into his mouth.

“Well,” Belle began slowly, “there are many reasons why eggs can taste differently.  To a refined palate, it can reflect what the hen has been fed.  Of course, eggs from other birds, like quail and duck, also taste differently from each other. . . and it could be because you are without a hangover this morning – that would certainly affect the taste of food.”  She paused before finishing up, “However, these eggs taste differently because they are tofu.”

He spewed.  “What?!  You’re feeding me tofu?” He pushed back from the table, spitting food from his mouth.

“A moment ago, it was really very good,” she quoted him.

He looked at her.  He looked at his plate.  Then he looked at his coffee, “Is this real coffee?” he asked suspiciously.

She looked at him.  Then she smiled.  “You tell me.”

He leaned over and sniffed the coffee.  Hesitantly he took a sip.  Satisfied he glared at her and set the coffee back down.  He pushed his ‘eggs’ around on the plate. 

“Maybe we should have a new rule,” he suggested tentatively.  “No more tofu surprises.”

She just looked at him.  “We’ll see,” she replied and then went off to attend to her other duties. 

He waited until he was sure she had gone from the kitchen and then he hurriedly finished up his meal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Rumple does on a date and Belle meets with friends. Later, Rumple does a drawing.


	5. Failures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumple goes on a date.  
> Belle meets with friends.   
> Later, Rumple does a drawing.

_Rumple has fielded two unwelcome guests, his ne’er-do-well father and his ex-wife, both of whom asked for money. On Thursday, awake and without a hangover, he has unwittingly eaten tofu (which Belle prepared as a scrambled egg substitute) and he liked it_.

Rumple had eaten all the food – every bit of the well-cooked and seasoned tofu -- and put the plate in the sink.  He then went on into his studio.  He had more work to do on Corella’s portrait but he put that aside.  He had wanted to start on some new work. 

He stood looking over his blank canvas.

He got up and looked out the window down on the city streets. 

He went back to the blank canvas.

He went back over to the window and looked out beyond the city to the Blue Ridge of the Appalachian Mountains.

He returned to his blank canvas.

He looked at it and swore. 

He had known what he was going to draw when he’d gotten up earlier but it had all been flushed out of his head.

_All he could think of was a pale skinned beauty with bright blue eyes. How was it that Jefferson had described her?  Perfect skin, gorgeous eyes, cute little figure. The tinkling notes of a celesta._

He pulled his notebook back out and looked at the drawing he’d done.  He flipped the page and went out to his living room. 

_She_ was fluttering about – holding a book in her hand and reading while she worked. She was picking up stray bits of paper, dusting around his odds and ends, plumping pillows.

“Am I in your way, sir?” she asked, suddenly noticing him.

“No, I’m just waiting for inspiration,” he told her kindly.

“How does that work exactly?” she asked him, setting the book aside and sitting down across from him.

“Inspiration?”

“Yes, that whole creative process.  Where do the ideas come from?” she asked.

“From . . .  everything,” he answered.   _He’d never known how to answer that._

“It’s remarkable.  I’ve seen some of your earlier work.  The feelings, the emotion that you are able to put on the canvas.  I mean,” she leaned in, “I can make a drawing that looks like whatever it is I’m drawing, but you seem to capture the . . . the _essence_ of the thing.  I guess that’s what makes you the artist.”

“I guess,” he answered dryly.  He realized that he was idly sketching her, this time focusing only on her face using a charcoal stick.  Just a few strokes and he managed to capture her sweet expression.   _The music was there, so soft, so delicate, so pretty._ He was well pleased with his efforts. 

“You seem to be having trouble settling in to work,” she observed. 

“Yeah.  I’m . . . I’m kinda in a slump.”

“Does that happen often?” she asked, a little concern creeping into her voice.

“It goes in waves.  I have ridiculously productive periods and then these spells of . . . nothingness.”

“And you’re in one of your spells?” she asked him.  “Anything I can do to help?”

“Hell, no,” he answered.  “Well, maybe bring me some more coffee.”

“Yes sir,” she promptly got up and scurried off to the kitchen. 

The phone rang and she stopped him when he went to pick it up. Instead she answered it.

“Mr. Stiltskin’s residence,” she answered in a warm voice. 

_Damn, but she was cheery._ He watched her sway around while she chatted with the person on the other end.  She had on several layers again, a white ruffled slip under a pink-flowered print on a dark background over-dress, white socks with lace trim and round-toed clogs.  _He had a very good idea of what lay under all those layers.  It was pleasant to contemplate._

“He’s working in his studio.  Let me see if he’s available to take a call,” he heard her say.

“It’s a Zelena Hart,” she whispered to him.

He sat for a moment thinking.  “Zelena?  Zelena!  Oh yeah.”  He swallowed and held out his hand.  He’d been hoping she had finally got the message and was moving on.

“He’s able to take your call Miss Hart.  One moment.”  She handed him the phone.

“Hey, Zelena,” he said into the mouthpiece without a trace of enthusiasm.

“Who the hell is there with you?”

“That is Miss French, my maid,” he answered her.

There was a moment of silence while Zelena managed to collect herself, “So you finally hired someone to help get your place clean.  That’s wonderful.  Now darling, do you remember you made a date with me for tonight and asked me to call to remind you.  Said you might not remember,” she purred into the line.

“Oh yeah.” That sounded right.  “What time?  Where were we going to connect?” He couldn’t remember any details.

“You were several sheets to the wind that night.  I said I’d come by and get you. What’s a good time?  Seven, Eight?”

“Uhhh, I guess seven and we’ll do supper at . . . somewhere?” He’d been going to suggest Curate but that was one of his favorite restaurants and he didn’t want it to acquire any negative associations with his current ‘girlfriend.’

“Perfectly lovely.  I’ll see you there darling,” she told him.

He hung up and handed Belle back the phone to put on the charger.   “I have a date tonight . . . at seven.  She’s coming here.”

“Of course, sir.”  Belle replied, dutifully putting the phone back and making a note in the calendar.  “Miss Hart, I take it?”

“Yeah.”  He paused.  “You should know that I have a stream of women coming through here who all expect to avail themselves of my services.”

Belle looked at him dubiously, giving him a very slight smile and shaking her head.

_She didn’t believe him._  He added, “Well, Zelena has been coming through here expecting to avail herself of my services.  I’ve been seeing her for about nine months.  I’ve been trying to break it off.  She’s cloying and possessive and not very nice. But  . . . “ he shrugged.  “I don’t know.  She’s beautiful and she’d let me do her – if I wanted to.”

“You’re thinking you don’t want to continue to go out with her?” Belle asked.  Satisfied with her efforts in the living area, she was now busy cleaning out some of the kitchen drawers, separating kitchen utensils from paperwork from tools from everything else.

“She’s the daughter of a woman I had an affair with . . . it was a long time ago.”

“Got the mother-daughter heebies?” Belle asked.

“No, in this case my heebies are more like the ones I get when I step out in front of on-coming traffic,” he told her.

“You think she’s stalker-crazy or something like that?” Belle asked perceptively.

“Maybe. It wasn’t so bad when we first met. I mean, she was pretty eager and very accommodating, but it’s not special anymore.  And now, now I have to listen to her, you know, talk and . . . “ he sighed, “put up with her pawing me. . . and . . . and . . . look at her,” he replied.

“Then, call her back.  Tell her something came up.  Tell her you have another meeting,” she suggested.

“But if I stop seeing her, I might never get laid again,” he told her plaintively.

Belle sighed. “Well, I guess you have to decide what’s important to you.  Your self-respect or your. . . sexual satisfaction.” Rumple pulled a face.  Belle stifled a smile, “She’s a sure thing, I take it.”

“Absolutely.  She tried to sit in my lap when I first met her.”

“That was very friendly,” Belle agreed.

“I was standing up at the time,” he told her, dryly.

“Oh,” she answered.  “So, this will be a sock-on-the-door type of event, I take it?”

“Probably,” he told her. 

“Hmmmm,” he heard her.

“I hope you’re not judging me,” he called out to her.

“Of course not, sir.”

“I can tell.  You _are_ judging me,” he said to her as she walked away from him.  He called after her, “I like how you answered the phone for me.  Keep doing that.”

**Seven o’Clock**

Belle was the one to answer the door.

“You’re that maid?” the statuesque woman demanded sourly.  She was a glorious strawberry blonde dressed in a dark, sharp-edged style. 

“I’m Miss French.  I’m Mr. Stiltskin’s maid.  May I tell him who’s calling?”

“Oh, he’s expecting me.  I’m his girlfriend,” the woman said sweeping by Belle to come into the apartment.

“Miss Hart, then?” Belle asked. 

The other woman just looked at her.

“Please come in and have a seat.  May I get you something to drink?” Belle asked her graciously.

“Scotch, straight up,” the woman told her.

Belle nodded.  She first knocked on Rumple’s bedroom door.  “Miss Hart is here, sir.”  Then she prepped the drink _although she opted not to use any of Mr. Stiltskin’s good stuff._ “He’ll be out shortly,” she handed the other woman her drink.

“I didn’t know he gotten around to getting a maid,” the woman said sitting down and scrutinizing her.  “You’re a rather dowdy little thing.”

“Is there anything else I can get for you, Miss Hart?” Belle asked, anxious to be away from this caustic woman.  _What had possessed Mr. Stiltskin to go out with her?  Was it just sex?_

_And were all the previous women in his life such bitches?_ Belle considered.  She’d met three of the women in his life, Regina, his agent, Milah, his ex-wife and now, Zelena, his current girlfriend.  Regina, she didn’t know very well but the other two – definitely bitches. 

Rumple came out of the bedroom before Belle had a chance to retire to the kitchen pantry.  “Oh good, you got Zelena a drink.  Thank you, Miss French.”  Belle watched as Zelena stood up to grab Mr. Stiltskin and give him a kiss on the mouth, her arms around him, her hands running up and down his arms and his back.  He didn’t seem to be kissing her back, but Belle couldn’t be sure. 

The two separated and Rumple called back to her.  “I’ll be back late, Miss French.”

**A Moment After**

Belle took a moment to herself.  It was still early in the evening on Thursday.  She had plenty of time to get to the Green Dragon, meet up with her friends and get back to the apartment, especially since she wasn’t expecting him back home until the wee hours.  She hadn’t mentioned to Mr. Stiltskin that she would be going out, but it wasn’t like he owned her or anything.  She had been on the job since seven that morning.  No, Belle felt she was perfectly privileged to be going on for one evening to connect with her friends.

And they were already gathered at the Green Dragon.  They greeted her with cheers.

“Haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Ruby said that you had gotten a job working for Rumson Stiltskin.”

“What are you doing for him?”

“What’s he like?”

Belle ordered a glass of the house pinot noir for herself and sat down.  She took a breath and dove in.  “I am working for Mr. Stiltskin but it is the least glamorous job imaginable.  I’m trying to keep his place clean, keep his calendar and sober him up.  He’s brilliant but . . . rather unpredictable.”

“How hot is he in person?” Ruby asked.  Ruby was Belle’s best friend ever.  The two had connected when they were both in middle school and had never been out of touch.  Ruby was the wild one of the pair, Belle much more stable and studious.  They complimented each other, Ruby urging Belle to loosen up and Belle holding Ruby back from some of her more audacious plans. 

Belle sighed.  Her other friends, Mary Margaret, whom she’d also known since middle school, and Mary Margaret’s roommate, Emma, who had only recently joined the group, all leaned in to hear her answer. 

“Give, give give,” Ruby pushed her.

“He’s . . . he’s got beautiful eyes and beautiful hands . . .” Belle hesitated and finally added, “and a tight ass.”

‘Woo hoo!” Ruby exclaimed.

Ruby was about to asked her more about her employer but Belle interrupted, “Listen, he’s rather stressful to work for and I really would appreciate it, at least for this evening, if we didn’t keep talking about him.  I need to get away and I want to hear what’s going on with you all.”

Ruby nodded in agreement but added one more thing, “Just so you know, I’ve started a pool.  When will Belle sleep with her hot boss?”

“Oh no, please,” Belle begged her friend.  “We don’t have that kind of relationship.’

“Yet,” Ruby persisted.  “If you want, I can give you a blind date on the calendar.”

“No, please. Please, let’s change the topic,” pleaded Belle.

Emma spoke up, “I met someone.”

The group turned to her.  “And?” Ruby turned her to Miss Swan.

“He’s a little older than me.  He’s a financial planner, very stable, very steady.”

“The complete opposite of Emma,” Mary Margaret told them.  “I’ve met him.  He’s perfect for Emma.  A gentleman with a little edge, a little mystery.”

“Gotta a picture?” Ruby asked and Emma dutifully pulled out her phone to pass around the picture of her latest, a dark-haired fellow with a serious expression.

“Tell them how you met,” Mary Margaret urged.

Emma smiled.  “My stupid bug had broken down,” she began.

“Again,” the other women said at the same time.

“Yes, again.  Anyway, he stopped and helped me get it going and then invited me out for coffee.”

“Coffeeeeee,” Ruby said salaciously.  “Yeah, I’ve had a lot of ‘coffee’ dates.”

“We just got coffee,” Emma insisted.  “And a second date.”

“Why did you say he was mysterious?” asked Belle.

Emma pulled a face, “Eah, he won’t talk about his family.”

“Oh god, he’s not married?” Ruby asked.

“If he is, he’s got a complete double-life thing going on.  I’ve been to his place a couple of times and it’s totally a bachelor pad.  I just think he doesn’t get on with his parents and doesn’t like to talk about them,” Emma explained.

“Ohh,” Belle said.  “That’s kinda sad.”  She turned to Mary Margaret, “How about for you?”

Mary Margaret smiled.  “It’s getting serious between me and David.”

“David?  Didn’t I date David?” Ruby asked.

“One time and so did Belle, one time, but that was a while ago.  We’ve been dating more than six months,” Mary Margaret shared.

“Six months with the same guy?!  Euue,” Ruby said.  “Doesn’t that get boring?”

“Not at all,” Mary Margaret assured her.  “Not when it’s the right guy.  We just seem to be wonderfully in sync.  I’ve met his mother and she’s a sweetheart.”

“He’s introduced you to his mother?” Belle repeated.  “So, it is serious.”

“Yeah, I think so,” Mary Margaret agreed.  “We’re talking about how many children we might want and what kind of house we could live in.”

Ruby groaned.  “I am sooo not ready for anything like that.”

“Well, what’s going on with you?” Emma asked her.

Ruby shrugged.  “You know, I’ve been seeing that surgical resident, James, for a couple of weeks.”

“Belle had dated him too, right?” Mary Margaret asked.

“One time,” Belle agreed.  _She did seem to have a lot of first dates she realized._

“It’s been great, but . . . well,” Ruby was hesitant.

“Well?” it was Belle’s turn to push.

“I was waiting for him at the hospital and I met this other guy,” Ruby confessed. 

“And?” Emma pushed this time.

“Totally not my regular type of guy.  He’s kinda nerdy and really sweet.  He’s a psychiatry resident doing rounds there.  James was running late and I ended up talking with this guy for . . . well, a long time.  The best listener ever.”

“So, did he ask you out?” Belle asked.

“No, but, well, James and I are winding down and I was really thinking of giving this other guy a call.  He’s so shy I can’t imagine him calling me.”

Belle shook her head, “You aren’t ever going to settle down, are you?” she asked.

“Not when there are so many nice guys out there, noooo,” Ruby said. 

**Very Late That Night**

Belle made it back to the apartment before midnight.  She checked on her father and then returned to the little bedroom she’d been shoved into, the bedroom that had become her special world.  She had spent only a little time cleaning in here, both throwing stuff away and moving items into other rooms.  The man had apparently used the room as if it was one giant junk drawer.  After she had re-arranged the furniture and added in some feminine touches, it was beginning to take on her personality.  She had brought up her e-reader and phone recharger. 

She found herself a little wound up and not ready to sleep after her evening with her friends so she poked around in the room.  She opened the closet and cringed – full of artisty things, canvases mostly.  She pulled them out. 

Interesting. These were all drawings and paintings of two women -- a lovely brunette woman with dark eyes and a sultry manner and a gorgeous red-head with a ripe sort of beauty.  The women were in various stages of dress and undress. 

_Why had he put them in here?_

The sultry dark eyed brunette, she quickly recognized as a younger version of the man’s ex-wife.  She hadn’t known he was painting when he was married to Milah but then thought that he must have done it for recreation – his talent hadn’t sprung out fully grown once he’d moved to Asheville.  

She wondered if the other was the woman he’d been engaged to who had thrown him over at the last moment.   The red hair made her a candidate for Zelena Hart’s mother.  He’d probably put the portraits in here so he didn’t have them sitting around as reminders.  Probably not a good idea to take them out.

She took them out.

Belle sat on the floor looking at the multiple portraits.  The brunette was breath-taking but her eyes were harder in some of the pictures – whether these were the earlier ones or the later ones, Belle did not know.   As for the red-head, there was something in her demeanor that set Belle’s teeth on edge.  She was beautiful, yes, but there was no warmth.  The artist had unwittingly (or, perhaps, with intention) captured this.  The idea that Zelena Hart was her daughter made sense – both women had a predatory air about them. 

Belle returned the portraits to the closet.  She’d be able to hang her clothes but there was no room for any shoes.  Well, she only had a couple of pairs.  She had tackled the antique desk next and had been able to relocate the handful of folders and miscellaneous office supplies she’d found into the kitchen office.  It would work well for her underwear and her socks. 

Yes, things were coming along nicely.  There was already a cable and internet connection in the little room so she had managed to connect her own little television set.  She’d settled in watching reruns of _The Artful Detective_ when she realized she had finally dozed. 

A noise awakened her. 

A glance at the clock.  Two o’clock . . . in the morning.  There was banging and laughter and shuffling sounds.  She went to the door of her bedroom and listened.  A woman’s voice and a man’s. 

_Must be Mr. Stiltskin and Miss Hart.  She peeked out to see._

The two were in the process of undressing each other.  Both appeared to be very drunk.  They were laughing and kissing each other.  Their hands were under their clothing.  Belle quickly, as softly as she could, shut the door. 

She could still hear noises so she opted for ear plugs.  She went back to her bed. 

The next morning, Belle took a tentative look out the door.  Furniture had been shifted around and she spotted Mr. Stiltskin’s tie, his shoes and one of his socks.  She found his jacket and then his shirt.  But, she wasn’t finding any female apparel and that puzzled her.  She stopped, hesitating when she got to _his_ room.  She didn’t want to disturb the happy couple, especially if they were in a state of dishabille or, worse, in the middle of doing it. 

She listened.  There were no sounds.  _Should she check on him?  Or just leave him alone.  He had, after all, survived being left to his own devices before she’d started working for him._

She decided she’d go back and work in the kitchen – there were more drawers and all the cabinets to be gone through. 

So, she was surprised mid-morning when Rumple appeared in her kitchen, wearing a ratty brown bathrobe.  She’d been sitting at the counter taking a short break, absorbed in her latest library book and a cup of coffee _sans liqueur_.

“Sir, can I get you anything?” she asked putting the book down and standing up.

He looked at her, bleary-eyed and vacant looking.  “Hangover?” he muttered and slumped down in one of the chairs.

“Yes sir,” she answered assuming he wanted her cure.  She popped a piece of bread into the toaster and began prepping the electrolyte, tomato juice concoction she had developed long ago.  She added her special ingredients.  She handed him a glass of the miracle red liquid and spread some honey on the toast.  “Here you go.”

“Zelena’s gone,” he told her after swigging down The Cure.

“Are we pleased?” Belle asked him, putting her cookware she’d used to prepare The Cure into the dishwasher.

“No.  Yes.  Yes.  I think, yes,” he seemed confused. “She was kinda . . .  all over me.  I felt . . . used?”

“Uuu hummm,” she responded.

“Never got comfortable with her.  I mean, I know she always expects sex, but . . . .  Well, when it came time for the magic . . . .”  He shrugged and made an empty-handed gesture with both hands.

Belle blinked.  “Sir, I’m not sure I’m the one you need to be telling this to.”

He yawned.  “Why not?  You throw out my garbage and wash the skid marks out of my underwear.  I don’t know that I have any secrets from you.”

Belle gave him a small smile.  “All right then.”

“She gave me the speech that women give men about ‘how this happens to all men sometimes, blah, blah, blah.’” 

Belle took a drink from her own coffee cup.  “Never has happened to any of my men.”

He glared at her.  “Well, good for you,” he said sourly.  “Truth was . . . she just doesn’t do it for me anymore. I mean, she’s gorgeous, but . . . there’s nothing.    I pretended I was drunker than I was and got her out of here.”

“And will you be seeing her again?” Belle asked.

He shuddered.  “Oh god, I hope not.  I’ve added being a failed lover to her ever-growing list of disappointments.”

“You poor dear,” Belle patted his hand. 

“Are you disappointed in me?” he asked.

Belle hesitated.  “Sir, it’s really not my place.”

“Oh god, you _are_ disappointed in me.”

“Well, sir.  You have all these extraordinary talents and you seem to spend so much of your time drinking and recovering from drinking and not. . .  using your talents.  It does seem a bit of a waste.”

He looked at her.  “Come here.”

“Sir?”

“Come, follow me. Bring the book.” He got up and went into his studio.  She hesitated about crossing The Threshold.  “Come on,” he gestured.

“Am I being invited into your studio?” she asked, surprised.  “I thought this was absolutely forbidden.”

“Come ooo-on,” he repeated irritably and waved her into the large room.  She stepped inside, into the forbidden zone.

“Sit,” he told her and gestured to a stool in the middle of the room.

Belle sat down.  “I’m not fixed up or anything.”

“You don’t need to fix up  . . . or anything,” he told her and he taped a large sheet of paper to an easel.   

“But I have some laundry to do and I really need to get the floor in the bathroom,” she protested.

“Shut up,” he ordered her as he continued to work.  “Open the book like you’re reading it.  And smile for me.”

She smiled.

“No, smile like you did when I told you that I had a stream of women coming in and out of here availing themselves of my services . . .   yeah, that’s it.”  He was working quickly, using pastels, stopping to spray the paper from time to time. It took him less than thirty minutes. 

“There.  I’m happy with that.  I think I’ll call it _Young Woman with a Book.”_

“Can I get up?” Belle asked him.

“Yeah.  You want to see it?’

Belle came around and looked at the quick pastel effort. 

She looked . . . luminous.  She had a faraway smile and looked completely absorbed in her reading.  It took her a moment to say anything.  “I . . . look . . . beautiful,” she told him.

“You are, very beautiful.” 

They stood a moment looking at each other before Belle tore herself away.  “I . . . I . . . I’m sure you have other things you need to be doing.  I certainly do.”  And she backed away and scurried out of the room.

Rumple looked at the picture for a long time.  It was inspired.  The first inspired thing he had produced in . . . a long time, a very long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT: There’s an odd phone call.   
> Two more visitors drop by.   
> Belle goes on a date


	6. Belle's Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s an odd phone call.   
> Two more visitors drop by.   
> Belle goes on a date

_Rumple has confessed to Miss French that he is in a slump but denies being concerned.  She answers his phone and he is reminded that he has a date with Zelena Hart, the daughter of a previous paramour; she is a woman he does not particularly like.  He is too drunk (and repulsed) to perform with Miss Hart later that night and, in the morning, informs Miss French that this relationship is done.  He then does a pastel drawing of Miss French which is the first inspired thing he’s done in a long while._

**Focus**

Belle tried to focus on her job.  She had a lot of cleaning to do, a lot of laundry, a lot of just general picking up.  And then there was the cooking.  Her mind kept going back to the pastel portrait Mr. Stiltskin had done of her.  She had looked amazing.  The man had managed to capture a deep hidden side of her – the romantic dreamer.  It was all right there on the paper now for everyone to see.  It had made her feel vulnerable, nearly naked, out there for all the world to see.

Drunken screw-up he might be, but he was truly gifted.

She was grateful when the phone rang.  “Mr. Stiltskin’s residence,” she answered.

There was a pause. “Is Rumson there?”  It was a woman, a soft-voiced, sultry sounding woman.  _Likely another one of his girlfriends or would-be girlfriends._

“He’s working in his studio.  May I take a message?” she said.

There was another long pause. And an audible sigh.  “I guess.  Let him know that Miss Black called.  He has my number.”  And she hung up.

“Who was that?” Rumple called to her from the studio.

“A Miss Black, sir.  She said you had her number.”

Rumple stood a moment -- absolutely frozen still.  His eyes narrowed and he finally spoke in a slow, controlled manner, “I am _never_ in for that woman.  I am never in for someone calling on her behalf – unless it’s to help make funeral arrangements.”  And he returned to his studio. 

**A Welcome Visitor**

It was Monday afternoon and there was a knock at the door.  She peeked and saw it was Ruby. She opened the door to her best friend.

“Girl, I just had to come by for a moment.  I really wanted to see where you were working.”

Belle hesitated for only a moment and shrugged.  She loved her best friend, but Ruby could be impulsive and a tad bit intrusive.  She let her in, “Shouldn’t be a problem.  I don’t have to get Mr. Stiltskin up until four.”  She showed Ruby the up-to-date kitchen, the living area, her own bedroom and the side bathroom.  They sat down in the living room.

“Awesome industrial chic,” Ruby pronounced the décor.  “Just a touch of boho.  Hey, can we go in there?” she motioned toward the studio.

Belle shook her head.  “No, Mr. Stiltskin has expressly told me not to go in there.”

Ruby sat for a moment looking over at the forbidden studio.  She then stood and looked around. “Hey, keep a look out,” she said to Belle.

“What are you going to do?”

“He didn’t forbid _me_ not to go in there.  I promise I won’t touch a thing.  This is just as close as I’ve ever been to a genius and I can’t possibly pass it up. If he comes in, I’ll swear you tried to stop me.”

Belle watched helplessly as her friend stepped over the threshold into the large airy studio.  Ruby was true to her word and didn’t touch anything, just walked around and looked things over.  She returned to Belle in the living room.

“Thanks, that was exciting,” Ruby told her sitting back down.  “Do you know he’s made some sketches of you?”

“A few,” Belle answered.

“A few!  There are stacks of them in there, all over the place!”

At that moment, they heard some stirring and Rumple came out of the bedroom wearing sleep pants and a t-shirt.

Belle jumped up _he was up early._ “Sir, this is Ruby Lucas, my best friend.  She just dropped by for a moment.”

“Sure,” he yawned.  “Anything to eat?”

“Of course,” she answered.  “I’ll get your coffee on.”

Ruby stood.  “I probably need to be going.”

Rumple stretched.  “Stay for coffee if you like.  I haven’t had any opportunity to meet any of Miss French’s friends.”

“Sure,” Ruby spoke up exuberantly before Belle could say anything.  Belle led the way into the kitchen and began fixing the coffee while Rumple and Ruby sat at the kitchen island.

“This is a gorgeous apartment.  Love the concrete and stainless steel mix,” Ruby was about to say more but Belle signaled for her to be quiet.

“What would you like to eat, sir?” Belle asked her employer after setting his coffee in front of him.

“How about one of your egg sandwiches.”  After a moment, he turned to Ruby.  “Would you like one?  Miss French does a great egg sandwich – sometimes even uses real eggs.”   He was still a bit blurry-eyed and was slurring his words, not quite awake.

“Sure,” said Ruby. “Belle uses my Granny’s recipe for them and they are great.”

Belle had also fixed her friend some coffee and dutifully got out the frying pan to begin fixing the sandwiches.  She also brought out bread, lettuce and tomatoes and some of her home-made garlic-mayonnaise.  She began toasting the bread and then turned back to Rumple.

He glanced at his coffee, “Butterscotch schnapps,” he ordered and once Belle had handed him the golden liqueur, he offered some to Ruby who eagerly accepted.  He poured about a quarter cup of the sweet schnapps into her remaining coffee and then did the same for himself. “Brightens the taste of the coffee,” he told her.

Between cooking chores, Belle glanced at the planner she kept in the kitchen.  “You have a five o’clock with Miss DeVries,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, Corie wanted to talk with me about commissioning some pieces for her new place.  She might be referring some of her friends to me for portraits,” he remembered.  “Nothing else?”

Belle double-checked the calendar.  “No sir.”

Belle was ready with a second cup of coffee when Rumple finished his first cup.  He also augmented this with the schnapps.  And after taking a sip of his second cup he turned to Ruby. 

“How long have you known Miss French?” he asked her.

Ruby brightened, “Since middle school.  We had the same gym class together and just connected.  We’ve been bffs ever since.”

“Nice,” he said and gave her a gentle smile.

Belle was watching and saw her friend just beam when Mr. Stiltskin gave her his full attention.  Ruby was like some fan-girl basking in the aura of her idol.  And Mr. Stiltskin was certainly turning on the charm.

“Ruby’s family owns Granny’s Country Diner,” Belle shared.  “I worked there when I was in high school and college.  Ruby’s thinking of adding a couple more restaurants but her grandmother isn’t sure it’s the right thing to do.”

“She’s afraid it’ll lose that _je ne sais quoi_ that makes it Granny’s Country Diner.  But I’ve got the financing lined up and a full business plan.  My idea is to start small and gradually expand.  I don’t want to overextend.”

“Ruby’s got an undergrad in Business and is working on her MBA,” Belle explained.

“Nice,” Rumple said.

Ruby had finished her coffee. “Listen guys, now that I’m properly buzzed, I really need to go.  I just stopped by to check out . . . uh, check on Belle.  I’ve got a class to get to.  It was really nice meeting you,” she had turned back to Rumple.

“I’ll have to make a point to stop by Granny’s,” Rumple told her, standing to walk her to the door.

“Hey, I’ve got a menu,” and Ruby stopped to dig in her purse.  She pulled out a folded shiny pamphlet and, while her attention was still on stuffing things back into place in her voluminous pocketbook, she dropped the paper on the floor rather than into Rumple’s hand. 

He bent down to pick it up and Belle nearly giggled.  Her friend had leaned over to check him out as he bent over.  Ruby made eye contact with Belle and gave her a solemn nod and a ‘thumbs up.’

Rumple returned to the counter to finish his lunch when Ruby left.  Belle felt her phone vibrate and checked it.  There was a message from Ruby – a little bobbing flame. 

**In the Early Evening**

Corie had blown in and they’d finished up quickly – she was indeed sending him a couple of her friends for him to do _au natural_  portraits. She also wanted him to do a portrait of her current lover whom, she had told him, wasn’t quite willing to drop her drawers for the honor of art.  He’d have to meet with Ursula to find out what she was comfortable with doing and get a better idea from the young woman what she wanted out of the experience.

“How’s it going with your little maid?” Corie had asked.

“Wha-at?  She’s my maid.  She keeps the place clean.”

“Oh my, are you that fuckin’ clueless?  You’ve got pictures of her all over this room . . . and they’re damn good.”  Corie polished off the Gin Rickey he’d made for her when she’d came in.  “You have feelings for her.”

“Well, yeah.  She’s a good maid.  I can find things.  I have clean clothes.  I don’t run out of coffee.” 

Corie laughed.  She was enjoying herself.  “No, I mean you have _feelings_ for her.”  And for a brief moment, Corie became uncharacteristically serious. “You care about her.  What she thinks of you.  What’s going on for her.  Real feelings.”

Rumple considered.  “Maybe . . . a little.  She’s a nice person and has had a bit of rough go recently.”

Corie shook her head, “No, I don’t mean that you feel sorry for her, like she’s some little lost kitten.  You really like her.  You . . . what’s the word? . . . you respect her.”

“Corie, are you sober?” Rumple asked her.

“Oh fuck, no,” she told him.  “If I were sober, I wouldn’t have these insights.  Darling, you need to be careful.  You need to protect your heart.  Miss French is the kind of girl you could fall in love with,” she warned him.

Rumple snorted.  “Love?  Tell me, dearie, do you believe in love?”

“Yes. Yes, I do,” she confessed.  “I know people think I’m a hard bitch, but even for me, love has tempered my . . . temper.  It has made me a better person – not a great person, mind you, but better than I was.”  She laid her hand on Rumple’s arm.  “Listen if Ursula hadn’t been in my life, I would have made a play for your maid – just to see if she might be up for some experimentation, trying something besides driving stick, but . . . because of Ursula . . . well, I didn’t try anything.  That’s a big change for me.  So, I’d have to admit that yes, love has changed me.”

Rumple considered.  “You are a bit more mellow now than you used to be.  Kinda miss the old Corella.”

“Well, hell, Rumple, sometimes I do too,” and she leaned in and gave him a chaste kiss on his cheek. 

**The Night Off**

“I’m taking the evening off,” she told him after having served him a supper.  It was now Tuesday and something had come up.

“What?!  You can’t have time off!” he protested.  _He should have known something was up.  She was dressed differently, a little more fancy, with a top that went a good deal lower than her usual daily wear – it suggested cleavage.  She had on girly heels.  She’d put a wide belt around her waist and was showing off an hourglass figure._

He was sitting at the table enjoying his dinner. Belle had, yet again, fixed him something delicious to eat. Tonight was some type of burger. He wasn’t exactly sure what type it was, but he had learned not to ask questions when he might not want to know the answers. 

But now, hearing her news, he had stopped eating and sat gaping at her.

“What do you mean I can’t have time off?” she turned on him.  “I’ve been working for you, what now? three weeks, seven days a week, from seven o’clock in the morning, until nine or even later at night.  I’ve had one evening out this entire time and I think I have more than earned some additional time off.”

_Well, it would be petty of him to deny this._ “All right.  You’ll be back at ten?”  _She’d had an evening out?  When had she have an evening out?_

“I’ll be back when I get back,” she told him firmly.

“All right then.  But,” he put his fork down.  He stood and walked over to her, closely examining her outfit with his artist’s eye.  It was designed to attract attention.  _He was intrigued._   He was taller than she was, even with her teetering heels and he was able to catch a distinct glimpse of cleavage _._ _He was scandalized._  She’d gotten her hair into burnished curling ringlets _how could he have ever thought of her hair as mousy?_ and, judging by her heightened coloring, had put on a little makeup.  _He was astonished._

“You’re going out looking like that?” he asked her.

“What’s wrong with the way I look?” she asked him.

“It’s kinda trashy,” he told her.  “I like your other clothes better.”

Her expressive face revealed her hurt feelings following his comments.  “I thought I was dressing up.  This isn’t nearly as revealing as what some of your lady friends have worn.”

“Well, my lady friends are all sluts.  Now, tell me about this date,” he pressed her.

She looked at him.  “Mr. Stiltskin, I don’t believe I have to do that.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to be polite and be interested in what’s going on in your life.  Who are you going out with?” he wheedled.

“You’re kinda sounding like my father.” She sighed, suspecting he was not going to give up without her sharing something.  “If you must know, I got a call from an old boyfriend.  He told me he and his wife were having a bit of a rough patch and he wanted to talk about it.”

Rumple leaned back.  “Soooo, what do we have here?  An old boyfriend calls you and wants to tell you how his wife doesn’t understand him and you get all gussied up to go off to meet with him in some dark bar.”

“We’re going to Bouchon’s, if you must know.”  She named the charming little French restaurant on Lexington.

“Okay then, you’re going to meet with him in a chic French restaurant where he will tell you that his marriage was all a mistake and he never should have broken it off with you.”

Belle shook her head, “I broke it off with him, for your information.”

“Ohh?” he arched an eyebrow and sat back down.  “Sex wasn’t good enough?”

Belle sighed, “None . . . of your business.”

Rumple sat picking at his meal.  “So . . . it was the sex.”

Belle nearly sputtered.  “I’ll be back later.  Take care of yourself.”

And she walked out.

Rumple pushed his food around on his plate, his appetite gone.  _What was he going to do with himself?  He’d gotten dependent on the little maid for company and conversation.  She was bright and quick-witted and very easy on the eyes.  She was also easy to bait and fun to watch when he managed to strike a nerve._

He left his plate on the table and got up to return to his studio.  He sat in the darkened room, lit by the lights from the street.  It was a grey room with darker grey shadows, odd black angles and peculiar murky lines.  He felt it reflected his soul, cluttered and done up in shades of black. 

His life was a mess.

He was struggling to meet his commitments.  In fact, he hated his stupid commitments – all stupid commission pieces for stupid people – and now he was about to add a bunch more.  There was nothing coming from his heart.  His heart, he decided, was a burnt-out husk. 

He picked up his drawing pad and opened it.  It contained one of the pencil drawings he’d done of Belle, one of her working and completely oblivious to his mad sketchings. 

He poured himself some whiskey.  _Damn._ This work was good.  Not like the other pieces he’d been churning out.  This had spirit, life, energy – like the woman herself. He sat looking over the sketch, his eyes lingering over the slant of her shoulders, the curve of her neck, the silky smoothness of her skin, the moist kissable quality of her lips.

_What the fuck was he thinking?_  He slammed the sketch down and took another drink.

The woman clearly had no interest in him.  And why should she?  She was . . . what? half his age?  And had a life outside of cleaning his toilets.  She probably had loads of friends.  Plus, she’d seen him at his worst, passed out, vomiting.  She’d cleaned up all manner of his garbage. She’d washed out of his skivvies, for Pete’s sake.

But there was something there. 

At least on his side of things.

Even when he knew that beginning a relationship with your muse was a sure-fire path to destroying both the relationship and the muse.

**Bouchon’s**

Belle sat with Will at the little restaurant. 

“Belle, I’m so grateful you agreed to see me.  I’m sorry when I called you, I’d had a few. . .”  Will was genuinely sorry, maybe even a bit embarrassed.

“I understand, Will.  You told me you and Ana . . ?”

“Yeah.  She wants us to move.  Got this job offer that would likely require her to work twelve to fifteen hours a day.  There’s a lot more money in it but I . . . I think there ought to be more to life than work and money.  We’re doing all right now and I just can’t see the move and the job.  We had a big row and I stomped out.”

“Such a tough decision, Will,” Belle told him.

“Yeah, and I know you can’t make it for me.”  Will gave a rough laugh, “Hell, I’m pretty sure that you’d have the same concerns that I do.”

Belle listened to her old beau rant and cry and carry on, punctuating his remarks with the occasional word and frequent nod.  They were each on their second glass of wine when Belle looked up.

“Oh, bloody hell!” she said under her breath.

“What’s up?” Will asked and turned to look in the direction Belle was staring.  There was a slight man with unkempt hair and wrinkled clothes standing in the front of the restaurant.

“It’s my boss,” she told him.  Rumple saw her, smiled and waved, chatting quietly with one of the waitstaff who brought him a drink. He sauntered into the restaurant, making his way slowly over to the table.

“So, this is your date for the evening?” he asked, pulling up a chair and putting his drink down on the table. 

“Will, this is Rumson Stiltskin.  You may be familiar with both his music and his art.  He’s my boss.  I’m sure he’ll tell us what he is doing here,” her glare fixed on Rumple.

“Just happened to be in the neighborhood and suddenly thought about their wonderful _moules frites_.  I like the ones cooked in Pabst Blue Ribbon with some added red pepper.  Decided I had to have some.”  He smiled at both of them.

“Of course, you did,” Belle looked at him astonished . . .  appalled.  _What was he doing here?!_

“So, this is the young man who drunk dialed you?” he asked her affably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rumple interjects himself into Belle’s date and there are repercussions.  
> Later, Rumple gets ready for a fundraiser and Belle meets up with her friends.


	7. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumple interjects himself into Belle’s date and there are repercussions.  
> Later, Rumple gets ready for a fundraiser and Belle meets up with her friends.

_Ruby has dropped by the apartment and noted that Rumple has done a large number of drawings of Belle.  Corella drops by later and warns Rumple that he could be developing genuine feelings for his little maid.  Later, Belle tells a protesting Rumple that she wants the evening off to meet with an old boyfriend.  Much to her amazement (and irritation) Rumple shows up in the restaurant and joins her and her date._

“So, this is the young man who drunk dialed you?” he asked her affably sitting down at their table.

“I . . . I did, sir,” Will stammered. 

“And what’s going on with you and your wife?” Rumple asked him turning his attention entirely on Belle’s date.

Belle took a drink, quickly finishing up her wine.

“She got a really lucrative job offer, but it will require long hours and we’ll have to move,” Will told him.

Rumple had signaled the waitress and ordered himself a second drink.  Belle spoke up and asked the waitress to bring her the same thing he was having.  At Rumple’s glance, she smiled at him, “You’re treating,” she told him.

He shrugged and smirked at her.  Then he turned his attention back to Will.

“Classic conundrum, young man.  A lot of money, but will the relationship survive?”

“Exactly.  You understand.” 

“You should be asking a different question,” Rumple told him.

“Sir?”

“How strong is your relationship?  If it’s solid, it will withstand just about anything, not everything mind you, but just about.  Stress makes a good marriage stronger, not weaker.  If your relationship is weak, it’s going to find some reason, any reason, to come apart.  You have to decide.  Now,” he sat back, “what do you want from your marriage, from the relationship?”

Will hesitated only a moment, “Her happiness,” he said.  “But . . . I’m not sure this job will make her happy.”

“Have you shared this with her?”

“I’ve tried,” Will told him.  “The thing is, I don’t think she knows what will make her happy.”

“Ah.” They had gotten their drinks by this time.  “Many of us don’t truly know what will make us happy.”  Rumple took a drink and set his glass back down.  “Sounds to me like you need to be talking with her.  Why don’t you take her out to a nice restaurant like this – a public place is so much better for this type of conversation – we tend to manage to remain civilized.”

Will considered.  “I have nothing to lose by talking to her.”

“Exactly,” Rumple toasted the young man.  “And everything to gain.  Now, why don’t you give her a call.  I’ll take care of the bill here,” he told him.

“I’ll do that,” Will told him.  He got up, then stopped.  “Thank you, Belle.  You’re a good friend.”

“Glad to be of help,” she told him _perhaps a little sourly_.  And she and Rumple watched Will walk out of the restaurant.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Belle nearly spit at him. 

“I just happened to wander by,” he told her innocently.  “And you’d been gone a while.  I was worried about you.”

“I was gone less than two hours!  You couldn’t find something to do for two hours besides deciding to come and horn into my evening?”

He thought about it, “I was concerned.”

Belle finished the drink.  She signaled the waitress.  “I’ll have another one of these,” she told her holding up her latest drink.

“Aren’t you drinking a lot?” he asked her.   

“You were bored!” Belle scrunched up her face, ignoring his previous comment.  “You didn’t have anything else to do and the best thing you could come up with was to come here to torment me,” she accused him.

“Hey, you came here to help a friend, right?  At least that’s what you said you were doing.  And I showed up and I helped him.  So, goal accomplished.  Are you mad that it wasn’t you that gave him the right advice or . . . “ he leaned forward, his face inches from her own, and lowered his voice “were you here to offer him a different kind of help?  Remembrance of things past?  Friends with benefits kinda thing, perhaps?”

Belle gripped the glass in her hand, debating the merits of tossing the remnants onto Rumple’s face.  After a tense moment, she opted to chug down the burning liquid.

He leaned back smirking at her.  “Not quite over him I take it,” he murmured.

“All right.  There was a while when I thought he might be The One, but I realized that we . . . we . . . we were too much alike.  There was no energy in the relationship.  We were great friends, but . . . “

He waited and when she didn’t finish, he did, “But you weren’t great lovers.”  Belle dropped her eyes and Rumple signaled for another drink for himself. “It’s good to have friends,” he commented.

“Yeah, but that’s how all my relationships seem to go,” she told him.

“I seem to be the opposite.  I have these great loves that consume me.  I can’t think of anything except the woman, night and day, day and night.  I have great lovers but not a lot of friends.  In fact, I can’t think of any women I would count as my friends.”

“How about that Corella person?  You seemed to be pretty chummy with her.” Belle began guzzling her fourth drink. 

“We understand each other,” he thought about it. “Maybe that is a form of friendship.”

“And how about you and . . .  what’s her name? Regina?”

“She’s my business manager,” he shook his head.

“But she seems to look out for you, more than someone who’s just a business manager might.” 

“Maybe . . .” he sounded doubtful. 

The two sat quietly.

“These are really good.  I’m going to have one more,” Belle told him and signaled the waitress for yet another drink.

Rumple frowned but didn’t say anything.  He pursued the topic on hand.  “But that’s it, huh?” he asked.  “You think that I have just those two women as my friends?”

“Well, I don’t know everyone you associate with.  There may be others.”

“There aren’t,” he told her and took another drink himself.  “What about you?  Do you have a lot of male friends?”

“I think . . . maybe.  There’s Will, of course.  Then there’s . . .  Gary.  We dated all through high school and he got a big athletic scholarship to play football.  We dated for about two more years and were actually engaged.  But I caught him in bed with somebody else.”

“Another woman?” Rumple asked.

She shook her head, “Another man.”

“Ouch,” Rumple winced.

“Yeah.  We decided to go our separate ways.”

Rumple nodded, “Understandably.”

“But we’re still friends.  He’s playing professional football now and has come out,” Belle told him.

“Gary?  Wait a minute!  Not Gary Gaston? The linebacker?  You dated him?”

“Yeah.  We were big-time serious for several years.  I was so stupid, I never suspected.  I thought he was just being respectful and treating me like a lady.  When I caught him with his boyfriend, it all came crashing down.  He later apologized and told me that if he could be with any woman, it would be me.  He thanked me and then came out and . . . well, it’s all worked out for him.”  Her beautiful blue eyes were blurry and her speech was beginning to slur.

“So, tell me about your other boyfriends,” he urged her, surprised at her willingness to share but also suspecting the alcohol was playing a role.

“Well, most recently there was August, but he was too involved with August to get involved with me.  And, let’s see, I wouldn’t count Keith.  Oh, I briefly dated James, but he’s with my best friend now, well at least until she dumps him, and then there was David, who’s with another one of my friends now. Oh, and there was Graham but his job took him away.”

“You slept with all these guys?” Rumple asked her.

“What?!  You can’t ask me that!”

“Well, you were the one to bring them up.  I’m just trying to be interested and supportive,” Rumple told her.  He leaned in, “So, no, you didn’t sleep with all of them.  Did you sleep with any of them?”

Belle rolled her eyes. “Oh, good grief.  It’s not always about sex,” she told him.

“Yes, it is,” he told her. “But we were talking about friends.  Are any of these guys friends?  If you had to move, would any of them come and carry boxes down three flights of stairs for you?”

“Well, David and James would, I think. Oh, there’s also Leroy.”

“Who’s Leroy?” Rumple asked her.

“You know,” she told him and started giggling. 

“Noooo,” he told her.  “I don’t know.”

“You dooo,” she said, smiling at him.  “I never dated him, of course.  But he’s a friend and a guy.  He’s the custodian for your building.  And I’m pretty sure he has a girlfriend.”

“Oh!” He made the connection.  “Oh yeah, I know Leroy.  And he’s one of your male friends?  And he has a girlfriend?”  Now that was hard to imagine.

“Oh, of course, there’s Jefferson.” And she took another gulp of her drink.

That caught his attention.  “Jefferson?  You just met him.”

“Yes.  He’s very nice.  He keeps asking me to go out with him.  There’s a poetry reading that he thought I might like.”

“Poetry?”  Rumple focused on his own drink.  “Yeah, because he’s sooo interested in poetry.  Listen Belle . . .” _How much did he need to share about his best friend?_

“What?  He seems very nice,” Belle finished off her drink.  “These are reeeeally good.  Should I get another one?”

Rumple looked at her.  Her eyes were bright and her skin flushed.  _She looked amazingly pretty, really, really pretty.  He felt his pants get tighter.  Damn._

“Probably not.”

“Well, I don’t care what you think.”  And Belle signaled for another drink.

When the waitress came, Rumple shook his head.  “I think the lady’s had enough.  I’m taking her home.  I’ll take care of the check.”

“Hey, I wanted another drink,” Belle protested.

“Belle, what’s twelve times fourteen?”  He left cash on the table.

She scrunched her face up while she was trying to do the mental math.  Her eyes crossed.  “Oh my. I’m a little dizzy.”

“Yeah.  I thought so.”  He stood and held out his hand to her.  She got to her feet . . .  and staggered. “Come on, dearie,” and he stood behind her, bracing her with an arm wrapped around her.

He helped her out of the restaurant and walked with her back to his apartment.

“One hundred forty-eight,” she suddenly said.

“What?!”

“You’d asked me twelve times fourteen.  That’s the answer,” she told him.

“It’s one hundred sixty-eight,” he corrected her.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he told her guiding her along.

She continued to lurch and stumble and several times nearly fell.  As they stood in front of the door of his apartment, she lounged against the wall.  Once he opened the door, she fell into him, her arms going around him, his arms going around her.  She sniffed him. 

“You smell really good,” and then to his consternation, she stood on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on his throat, her lips soft against his skin. 

She lifted her face to his and their lips were almost touching. 

“Am I drunk?” she asked him.

“Li’l bit,” he told her.  She was floppy and wobbly, slurring her speech and struggling to focus her eyes.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever been drunk before.  It’s kinda nice.”

“Uh huh . . . you say that now,” he remarked pulling away. He helped her across the threshold.  “What did you have for supper?”  

“Same as you – the moooolaaaay frites. Frites, frites, frites!” She dissolved into giggles for a moment.  “The all-you-can-eat moules frites. I got mine _Parreeeesienne_ style.  Why you ask?”

“Just wondering,” he said neutrally.  

“Why?”

“Because you chased a couple of glasses of wine with four Briser le bourbons.”

“They was good.”

“Uh huh.  They’re made of bourbon and ginger beer.  And for an inexperienced drinker like yourself . . . “ he didn’t get to finish.

“I feel sick,” she interrupted and, breaking away from him, she managed to run to the bathroom. 

He sighed, stopped to pour himself a whiskey and followed her in.  Fortunately, she’d been able to get to the toilet and was kneeling in front of it, losing much of the alcohol she’d consumed and a great deal of her supper.

“Well, that was unpleasant,” she told him.

He leaned against the sink.  He sighed, “It’s not over, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I’m sure . . .” but he was right.

The vomiting continued for a while.  He fetched her some crackers and cola during one of the interludes.  He held her hair back.  He said soothing, comforting things.  When she was totally exhausted, he helped her back to his bed and removed her shoes and socks.  He covered her up and using his fingers, brushed her hair out of her face.

He sighed and went out to the living room to settle himself in.  _Why had he gone after her?_

_She’d been right._ _He had been bored.  She’d only been in his life a couple of weeks but already when she wasn’t around, he missed her.  And he’d thought this ex-boyfriend of hers sounded like a scumbag come to call.  He felt protective but, no, not jealous . . . well, maybe a little jealous. Yeah, he was a little jealous._

_He knew she wasn’t interested in him.  He didn’t think she even liked him._

He sighed again.  And turned on the television and watched a favorite old movie, _Laura_.  He finally drifted off with the blue light flickering.

**The Morning After**

Belle wasn’t used to waking up in a strange bed in a strange bedroom. 

She had never awakened in a strange bed in a strange bedroom. 

She felt awful.  Her head was killing her.  Her mouth tasted like cotton soaked in socks. 

Her eyes were stinging. 

Her body hurt. 

Her hair hurt. 

_Where was she?_

She managed to look around, marshalling her cognitive resources, limited though they were at the moment, and recognized _his_ bedroom.  She cautiously turned over and was relieved beyond measure to find she was alone.

_How had she got here?_

She remembered the restaurant.  And _he_ had come in and interfered in her date.  Will had left to talk things over with Ana.  She had been mad, she had been furious and, out of spite, she had ordered what _he_ had been drinking, several of them.  She didn’t remember getting back to the apartment, but there was a memory of her being violently ill. 

She peeked under the covers.  He’d taken off her socks and shoes but otherwise had left her clothed.  Belle took a deep breath and got herself up.  She definitely needed some of her hangover remedy.  Gingerly she made her way out to the kitchen. Rumple was sitting at the counter drinking coffee, eating some eggs (real eggs), bacon, hash browns and toast.  The smell of food, normally welcomed first thing in the morning, was turning her delicate stomach.

“Well, good morning Sunshine,” he greeted her gently.

“Mornin’,” she managed to croak out.

“May I get you anything?” he asked.

“No . . .  thank you.  I’ll get . . .  yeah, make me some toast, please,” she corrected herself.  She went into the fridge and pulled out her hangover cure ingredients.  Slowly, she began mixing things up.  He watched her moving deliberately and carefully, allowing her space while he popped in some bread to make her toast.  She had a variety of ingredients in the Hangover Cure.  He’d never remember all of them – pedialyte, tomato juice and a number of odd additions like milk thistle tincture, turmeric and borage oil.  She finished mixing it and chugged it down.  She took the toast he’d fixed and poured honey on it and took a couple of bites.

“Do you want me to get out the Tiger Balm and rub your head?” he asked kindly.

Her eyes met his.  “I . . . I don’t think so. . . . Thank you.  What happened?  I remember you barging into my date and, then, Will leaving.  And I remember ordering whatever it was you were drinking and then things are kinda fuzzy.”

“Well, I tried to get you to stop drinking but you shouted out that you were white, free and twenty-three and could do what you damn well pleased.”

Belle’s blue eyes grew enormous.  “I never said any such a thing!”

He relented.  “No, of course you didn’t.  You just blithered on about your ex-boyfriends and then tried to get in my pants.”

“Oh, please, please tell me that didn’t really happen,” she had closed her eyes and was rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“You were a perfect lady.” _Except for the little kiss you planted on me._   “I managed to get you back here and then you threw up your supper and what alcohol that hadn’t already been absorbed into your system.  I got you into my bed and then covered you up and . . .  well now, here you are.”

“Thank you.  I . . . I’m quite embarrassed.  I don’t usually drink.”

“I would have never guessed,” he told her.

“But I was really mad at you,” she pouted.  “I _am_ really mad at you.”

He shrugged, “I thought you knew I was an arse.  And I’ve gotten loaded for worse reasons than being mad at someone.  No need to apologize, my dear.  Do you need to get some more sleep?”

“What time is it?” she looked over at the clock.  “Good grief, it’s almost ten.  No, I need to get to work.  I had wanted to finish cleaning out your pantry today and your dry cleaning should be ready and I. . . I can’t remember but there were some other things.”

“It’s all right, Miss French.  Just take it easy.  You need to re-hydrate and . . .  get better.” 

The phone rang.  She went to get it but he waved her off and answered it.  “Hello.”

There was a brief moment and without saying anything, he hung up the phone.

“Wrong number?” she asked.

“As wrong as it can get,” he told her.  “Now,” he turned his attention back to her.  “Anything I can get you?”

“Thank you,” she told him looking down at her feet.  “You’ve been really nice about all this.”

“What?  You think I’d fire you for getting drunk, especially when I was the reason?”

“No, but you’ve not rubbed my nose in it or lectured me or anything.  You’ve been nothing but supportive.”

“Well, I’ve had enough hangovers to realize that they are punishment enough.  You don’t need another person on your case.”

She gave him a weak smile. 

**Chasing a Donation**

“What do you think?” He was standing in front of a mirror dressing in a black Armani suit with a dark burgundy shirt.  Belle stood behind him.  She had watched him try on several shirts and tie combinations.

“Who is this woman?” she finally asked him.

He didn’t answer right away.  “Why do you think it’s a woman?” he finally asked.

“Because you never take a moment’s care with your personal appearance unless there’s a woman involved,” she told him beginning to re-hang rejected shirts and ties. 

He shifted uncomfortably.  “I just want a second opinion.”

“Uh hummm,” she told him.  “The great artist wants his maid’s opinion regarding how well his clothes are working for him?”

“Well, yeah,” he answered.  “I know I have an exquisite color sense but when it has to clothes, I’m like every other man.  I want a woman’s opinion.”

Belle looked at him, gentle disbelief reflected in her open expression.  “You look . . .  very nice.”  _Oh lord, the man looked good enough to eat, starting with those long, agile fingers and . . . or maybe start with the lips, they were certainly kissable enough.  Maybe just kiss him on the throat. The tailored suit just accentuated the sharp compact lines of his body and made her want to run her hands over him._ “Very nice,” she repeated.

“You think,” he stared at his reflection.  His eyes strayed to his little _mori kai_ clad maid with her round toed shoes, her ruffled socks, a long pale blue ruffled slip, the short blue embroidered skirt and pretty white lace embellished tunic top.  _Pah!  What did she know about fashion?  She dressed like a twelve-year-old Japanese girl._

_But it suited her, the ingenuousness, the sweetness, the gentleness – it all suited her.  He still heard those soft, dulcet tones of the harmonicum when he looked at her, light, delicate, fairy-like.   She looked like some sort of confection, like a decadently frosted cupcake.  He could almost taste the honey-vanilla rose fragrance in the frosting._

_And he so wanted to rub his face into all that frosting._

_Get a grip on yourself, old man! He told himself.  She’s half your age and is involved with a string of hard-ass boyfriends – young men who are more than capable of offering her a proper pounding._

_He managed to smile back at her._ “All right then.  I’m going off to meet with a Sarah Fisher.  She’s a very wealthy diamond heiress, rolling in ice, and they’re wanting me to convince her to make a donation to the local arts program.  Don’t know why they wanted me to approach her,” he muttered.

“Oh, I do,” Belle couldn’t stop herself from responding.  When he looked at her, she blushed.  “I . . . I just think that you’re an excellent ambassador for the arts.  And, I know when you want to be, you can be quite charming.”

He smirked at her.  “I guess I can be.  Regina is wanting me to butter her up . . . and, if that doesn’t work, she wants me to lick the butter off.”

 _Belle had an image of him licking butter off of her own self.  She took a brief moment and refocused._ “Well, I’m sure you’ll have a good time,” she told him.  She reached up to straighten his tie.  It was an innocent kind gesture but it brought her up right next to him.  They were standing very close together. 

He wanted to reach up and push the stray strand of hair away from her face and then cup her chin and bring his lips down on hers, soft at first, but then hard and satisfyingly possessive.  But he couldn’t imagine she would have welcomed his attentions. 

He sighed, “I know you’ve got an evening out with your friends, right?”

“Yes.  We’re meeting at a local bar for a couple of drinks.  Nothing special.”

“Well, have fun.  I doubt I will,” he told her.

Belle watched him leave, appreciating him walking away. 

They had been so close there.  If he had just leaned down maybe an inch or so.  She hadn’t meant to start anything _and apparently hadn’t, well at least not where he was concerned._

**The Green Dragon**

Belle met with her friends at the Green Dragon, their favorite bar.  Ruby, Mary Margaret, and Emma – her bestest friends in the whole wide world.  

“How’s it going?” Ruby asked everyone.

“David has asked me to spend Thanksgiving with his family.  It’ll just be his mom, him and me.”

“Oooh, Thanksgiving.  Serious,” Ruby said.

“Yeah, very serious,” Mary Margaret agreed.

“Are you thinking there’s a ring in the future?” Belle asked.

“Maybe,” Mary Margaret agreed.  “David’s not the kind of guy to suggest we live together – he’s going to go for marriage from the get-go.”

“Wow,” was all that Ruby said.

“Are you seeing that psychiatry resident or are you still with James?” Emma asked Ruby.

“The psychiatry resident. His name is Archie Hopper and I’m having the best time.  He is so easily scandalized.  The first time I went down on him, I thought he was going to turn redder than his hair.”

“Oh, TMI,” Belle reminded her friend who had few compunctions about sharing deeply personal information.  “How about you and that financial planner, car repair guy you hooked up with?” she asked Emma.

“Still going on.  He’s opened up a bit about his family.  Apparently, there was a really nasty divorce between his parents – mom was sleeping around on his dad.”

“So, he’s kinda gun-shy then?” Belle asked.

“Oh yeah.  Which is fine with me.  I’m not quite ready to settle down with any one guy, but . . .”

“What?  You think he might, maybe, just could be . . .?”

“The One,” finished Emma, blushing. 

“Belle, how are things going for you?” Ruby asked.

Belle sighed.  “Going nowhere.  I’m making good money and it’s for honest work but I’m  . . .” she didn’t finish.

“How’s your dad?” Mary Margaret asked.

Belle sat quietly.  “He seems to be getting worse.  I’m thinking he probably needs to close the shop and go into some kind of assisted living situation.  I can’t give him the attention he needs and I worry about him.”

“You know, if there’s anything any of us can do . . .” Ruby didn’t finish.  The other two women both nodded. 

“Thanks.  The money’s going to be the issue.  My dad’s only income is social security and it’s not much.  I’m hoping that maybe, if I sell the business that could help – and I’ve got an offer from our building’s custodian. It was surprising – you wouldn’t think that he’d be the florist-type, but if we can work out the financing, it could help a lot.  And he’s agreeable to dad continuing to work there as long as he can.”

The group nodded somberly.  Belle looked up, “Hey, I really didn’t mean to be a downer.  I’m dealing with it.”

“Right, of course you are,” Ruby told her.  “None of us here can help with money, but if you need someone to run him to the doctor or pick up something for him or check on him – stuff like that – we’re here for you.”

“I know, thanks,” Belle told them. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT: Rumple has an odd encounter with a patron of the arts. Later, he shares some things about his perceptions that make him different (special) when compared to others. Belle goes on another date.


	8. Oddities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumple has an odd encounter with a patron of the arts. He shares some things about his perceptions that make him different (special) when compared to others. Belle goes on another date.

_Rumple has graciously attended to a drunken Belle and learned about her past history with a series of unsatisfactory boyfriends.  He prepares himself for an event where he is to solicit money for the local arts programs from a rich heiress._

 

Sarah Fisher was quite the beauty _if you liked cool Nordic blondes_.  Rumple was intrigued by her beauty, but was more fascinated by her knowledge of art.  She had let him know that she had several pieces from his own efforts which had already graciously acquired value.  _She played like a violin, at first smooth with but a single tone, but then an overlay of nuance, and Rumple knew this was a complex woman._

“Well, you know what they say about paintings not really becoming valuable until the artist dies,” he told her.   

“Of course.  But I was taught to buy what I liked, so that whether it gains in value or not, I will still have enjoyment from the item.  It’s a principle that has never failed me,” she told him.  “In this singular instance, I can tell you how very much I’ve enjoyed meeting the artist.” 

Rumple smiled back at the woman.  _She was an older woman, close to his own age.  She was beautiful, rich, intelligent.  But when he compared her to a certain warm brunette, she seemed very cold._

_But why was he comparing her to a warm brunette?_

He cut to the chase.  “You know, I’m supposed to be exercising my dubious charms on you to get a generous endowment for our local arts program.”

She gave him a smile.  “I know.  Tell me, Mr. Stiltskin, just how far are you prepared to go charming me to get that money?”

He looked her over.  “I wouldn’t mind spending some . . .  time with you,” he admitted.  _She was interesting._

“But I’m not your type,” she summarized.

He winced, “Even though you’re very beautiful.  No, you’re not my type.”

“Don’t feel bad.  You’re not my type either,” she told him.

“What is your type, if I may be so curious?” he asked.  _Should he be introducing her to Corie?_

She sighed.  “I don’t know.  I’ve never met anyone who interested me.  You come close, for sure – I think I would be amused by your energy and your obvious genius.”

“Well, I am energetic and a genius, that’s all true,” he agreed casually.

“Aunt Sarah, Aunt Sarah,” a pretty girl with red hair came up and began speaking breathlessly.  “The best thing ever.  Oh, I’m sorry, you were talking with . . . I don’t know you . . . I’m Anna, so nice to meet you.” The girl interrupted herself, then continued, “Aunt Sarah, Elsa and I wanted to out on the town. Is it too late?  You know she won’t take me into a bar, but they have all these bands performing all around and there are some really cute boys and I really thought it would be fun but I know I needed to get your permission and I probably need to borrow some money and we’ll be back before eleven, even though it’s a school night you know I don’t need much sleep and I promise to go right to bed when we get back and I won’t grouse in the morning when you get me up.” 

Rumple watched with some level of amazement, curious as to how the girl managed to breath while she talked. He looked over at Sarah, who reached down into her purse to pull out some cash. 

“Anna, be back before eleven.  Don’t be kissing any boy you’ve just met.  And listen to your sister,” Sarah told her handing her the money.  After the girl had darted off, Sarah turned back to Rumple.  “My youngest niece.”

“Are they changing her medication?” Rumple asked.

Sarah gave him a weak smile.  “She is rather impetuous.  Heart of gold, very trusting, loyal.”

Rumple chose not to comment that he’d once had a dog with those qualities. 

Sarah took a drink of her white wine.  “I think we were talking about you being a genius,” she began again.

“Yeah, I’ve been told.”  He was looking Sarah over.  “I could be interested in doing your portrait.”  _She would be a challenge to paint, to capture the heart of the ice._

Sarah considered.  “I think I’ll leave the donation and skip the portrait.”

“Should my feelings be hurt?”

“Not at all.  If I were ever going to have my portrait done, it would be you.  I’m just not interested in having my portrait painted,” she said kindly. 

“Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.  It would be amazing,” he promised.  _He would have done her all in white with diamonds and silver, maybe just a touch of pale blue.  She would have looked like the Queen of Winter._

**One of the Best Things**

He returned early to the apartment, reasonably sober. He felt good, the mission had been accomplished.  He hadn’t gotten the commission but wtf.  He wasn’t precisely sure he wanted to do any more commissioned portraits anyway.

He found Belle where she had dozed off in the living area.  She had been knitting or crocheting – well, doing something with yarn and some type of metal implement and he found her curled up on his cushy sofa. 

He wasn’t sure what to do.  She was still fully clothed and lying in an awkward position. If he let her sleep as she was, she could likely wake up with a crick in her neck. 

He sat down across from her.  _Damn, but she was beautiful._  He knew he had told everyone that she was his maid and he wasn’t humping the help, but . . . .  He shook himself.  _Not gonna happen._ She certainly wouldn’t want to crawl into bed with his aged nads and he certainly didn’t want to take advantage of his position as her employer. 

He leaned forward and gently, gently laid her head down on the sofa using one of the cushions as a pillow.  He removed her little clogs marveling at her petite feet.  He laid a blanket on top of her.  He took one last moment to brush the hair out of her eyes and then went on back into his studio. 

He glanced back at the sleeping girl.  _He looked at his sketch pad.  Oh, come on, that would be creepy, he chastised himself._ Drawing a sleeping woman was worse than just watching someone sleep.  He bit his lip and took his materials back out with him to the living room. 

In the dim light, he drew what he saw, what he felt, what he heard and tasted.  It was a muted picture in shades of blue and grey with a glowing figure in the center – all honey and roses with delicate bell-like chiming sounds.  A beautiful woman, looking almost fairy-like with luminescent skin.  Her hair fell in ringlets around her face. 

He stepped away when he was finished to look at the work _in toto_. 

It was likely the best thing he had ever done.  He signed it and dated it.  He carried back into this studio and file it away.

Then he went onto bed. 

**Waking**

Belle woke up in a unfamiliar setting.  She didn’t recognize the furniture that lay about her and it took her a moment to realize that she had fallen asleep in the living room.  But . . .  she was confused.  She remembered getting irritated with herself struggling to figure out the new Fox Paws pattern – the stacked increases were driving her crazy.  She found her knitting had been set aside onto the table.  Her shoes had been removed and she had been covered up.

 _Oh my goodness!_ She sat up.  She’d fallen asleep in his living room.  _Oh lord! She hoped he hadn’t brought anyone in last night.  That would have been awkward._

_And what had happened to her shoes?  Had she kicked them off in the night?  And where had the cover come from?_

She realized that Mr. Stiltskin must have taken care of her. 

How embarrassing.

She got up and tiptoed to his room to check on him. 

No sock on the doorknob.

She hoped he was sleeping alone.

He wasn’t there.

Well, that was a letdown.

 _Had he come in and gone back out again?_ She stretched, found her shoes and slipped them back on.  She got up and pattered in toward the kitchen.

He was there, reading the paper and eating breakfast. “Well, good morning sleepyhead,” he greeted her friendly.

“Mornin’,” she said to him, wondering what he was doing up so early.  _Maybe he hadn’t been to bed yet._

“I got home at a reasonable hour last night, was also reasonably sober and was able to get up at a reasonable hour.”  He anticipated her questions.  He then pulled a face.  “Not sure I’m liking this.  However do you manage it every morning?” he asked.

“Strength of character,” she replied shortly.

He sat back.  “Why is it that morning people always feel so morally superior to everyone else?” he asked her.

“Because we are,” she told him, while she began to fix herself some breakfast.  “We get more done before you get up than you get done all day.”

“Oh,” he replied thoughtfully.  “I don’t know about that.”  He was sketching again.

“Well, look at yourself.  You got up early this morning.  What all have you got done?” she asked him.

“I fixed breakfast.  I solved the puzzle page.  I made a sketch of you,” he told her.

“Really?  Another one?  Can I see it?” she came over and looked at his pencil drawing. 

He’d drawn her looking down at a bowl while stirring something.  She looked focused and intent on the simple chore.

“I think I’ll call it something like _The Mindful Cook_ ,” he told her. 

“It’s beautiful. You always manage to make me look so beautiful even when I know I’m a mess,” she told him.  “How was your evening?” she asked, changing the subject, remembering that he’d gone out fundraising the night before.

“Met a beautiful blonde.  Had a marginal supper.  Vaguely propositioned her.  Definitely got turned down.  Offered to do her portrait.  Got turned down.  Ask her for money.  She bit.  Got the money and came back home early and found you just soddened out on my sofa.”

“I’m so sorry.  I was binge watching some old quirky Brit show about this smart but lazy constable working in a small Scottish town and I got engrossed.”

He shrugged.  “It happens – just glad I didn’t bring anyone back here.”

“So, there is a woman out there who doesn’t want to jump your bones,” she observed sipping on her own coffee. 

“Don’t often meet those,” he admitted.  “Kinda refreshing actually.”

The phone rang. As always, Belle answered, “Mr. Stiltskin’s residence.”

It was a man, a young man, if Belle was any judge of voices. 

The voice said, “Hey, it’s Neal.”

Belle mouthed, “Neal” to Rumple who rushed to grab the phone from her.

“Hello,” Belle heard him.  “I’m fine.” . . .  “Great . . . well, that’s wonderful.”  . . . “I’d love to meet you for lunch.” . . .  “A young woman?” . . . . “Sure, that will work.” Then he hung up.  He stood quietly for a moment.

Belle had sat down to her fried egg with onions, peppers, and mushrooms.

“Miss French,” he began.  “Anytime, Neal calls, no matter what I’m doing, no matter who I’m with, time of day, whatever, I will take the call.”

“Yes sir,” she told him.

He stood a moment, still very quiet.  “He’s my son.”

_Ohhh._

“Of course, sir,” she said.

“He wants to have lunch with me day after tomorrow, at 1:00, at the Early Girl Eatery,” Rumple added and watched as Belle stopped eating to dutifully add the appointment to the calendar.    

Rumple stood a moment watching her eat.  He seemed unsettled.  “Would you . . . perhaps . . . like to come with me?  I’m going to take a drive up to the mountains, probably go along the Blue Ridge Parkway.  I’ll pull off somewhere that looks nice, maybe along Graveyard Ridge . . . or somewhere.  I’ll take some pictures with my camera, maybe do some sketches, even some pastel work.  Oh,” he stopped and shook his head.  “It’ll be boring.  You wouldn’t be interested.”

Belle considered.  “I don’t know.  It sounds more interesting that cleaning out your closets.  I could take my knitting and my reading.  I wouldn’t want to interfere with your work.”

“Really?” he did seem genuinely surprised that she might want to accompany him.

“Well, I might like to see you work.  I mean, I’ve been the subject of some of your drawings but I’ve never seen you work on anything else.”

“It’s boring,” he promised her.

“I doubt that,” she told him shyly.

He had to smile at her. 

“Maybe I should pack a picnic?” she asked him as he began to gather his materials.

“That might be nice,” he called back.  So, Belle gathered some sandwiches together and juice for them to drink along with a blanket and some other odds and ends.  She was ready at the same time he was.

It was a beautiful day.  She sat in his fancy car as he expertly motored through town to connect with the Parkway. 

“What kind of car is this?” she asked him.

“You like it?” he asked.

“What’s not to like?  It’s breezy and sleek.”

“They’ve revived one of the plays I helped write a couple of years ago and I got this with the residuals.  It’s a Spider.”

“I’ve heard of those,” Belle told him slowly.  “This is a really expensive car.”

“I bought it because I liked the color,” he told her.

“Is that right?  Can I drive it?” she asked him.

“No,” he told her.

“Why not?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Why not?” she asked him again.

“I don’t let anyone drive my car,” he finally answered.

Belle narrowed her eyes.  “It’s because you think I’m clumsy, isn’t it?”

“Why would I think that?”

“Well, I tend to bump into things and drop stuff and I trip over dust bunnies.”

“Only because half the time you’re walking and reading at the same time,” he tempered her description of herself.

“Well, yeah, there’s that.”

“But I really don’t let anyone drive my car,” he repeated.

They drove along the Blue Ridge, sometimes pulling over on the overlooks.  Some time in the afternoon, they stopped at one of the overlooks with a picnic table and Belle set things up for them.  He took out his sketch book and began drawing her.

“You draw all the time,” she told him

“Ah yeah,” he agreed.  “I can’t stop it, can’t help myself.  I’m trying to get at something, something underneath what people see, the inner person, the soul if you will.”

“It’s astonishing to me that in a few lines you can capture my image – more than my image.  You draw my feelings, my intentions.  It’s slightly creepy, you know that.”

He chuckled.  “Yeah.  My wife, my ex-wife, thought the same way but, of course, at that time, my art work wasn’t selling.  My music was.”

“You aren’t writing music anymore?” she asked him.

“All the time, when I have a chance.  I always have tunes going through my head.  I used to think everyone did and it surprised me when I found out they didn’t.  But I haven’t been inspired with my music in a long time, certainly not like I have been with my painting.”

“How are you so talented in both areas?  I mean, usually people are painters or artists.”

“They are the same thing to me,” he tried to help her understand.  “Miss French, I _see_ musical notes – they appear to me as colors and shapes, even smells sometimes.  And all those colors and shapes, they have sounds to me.  I used to think that was how everyone worked, but, early on, when I told some musicians they needed to play the music ‘more red,’ I realized that they thought I was joking, that they had no idea what I was talking about.”

“That has a name,” she told him, trying to pull out the information.

“Synesthesia. A number of artists, particularly musicians, and . . . oddly, mathematicians . . . have the diagnosis.  I can’t explain it, I just know I seem to see the world differently.  It made living in New York City . . . difficult . . . too much . . . all the time.  It’s a remarkable city and I know many people love the place, but . . . I couldn’t handle it.  Asheville has the right . . . sound and feel for me.”

Belle was amazed at the man’s abilities.  He was genuinely different from others and sometimes his differences had been a burden.  “You are truly remarkable,” she said quietly. 

“I don’t always feel that way.  And I struggle with . . .  with what you would call ‘people skills.’  I don’t always read people correctly and it can get awkward socially.  I hurt people’s feelings and, usually, sometimes, I don’t mean to.”

“You poor baby,” she said sympathetically.

“I’m not telling you this for sympathy,” he told her.  “I know I can be difficult to live with.  I know I . . . I sometimes engage in some  . . . less than healthy behaviors.  I am a difficult man to love.  I accept these things about myself.  I try to do better, but I know from past experience that I will relapse.  I drive people away who would be nice to me.”

“So, you’re telling me all this so that when you behave like a complete . . . jerk, I’ll just . . .  what? go with it?” she asked

“I guess.  I just want you to know that any time I treat you poorly, it’s probably not you.  It’s me.”

Belle rubbed her hands together.  “That’s not good enough.  Just because you say you’re a jerk, doesn’t make it okay for you to act like one.”

“Probably not,” he agreed.  “But just the same, it’s who I am.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll work on it,” she understood, but wasn’t ready to roll over for the man.

**The Next Day**

There had been yet another phone call from Miss Black.  She had been calling about twice a week since Belle had started working for Rumple.  She had answered and let the woman know that Mr. Stiltskin was unavailable.  “He’s asked you to tell me that, didn’t he?” the woman had finally asked her. 

“Yes ma’am.  He has no interest in speaking with you.”

There had been a long silence.  “Who . . . who are you?” the woman asked her.

“I’m Belle French.  I’m his . . . caretaker,” Belle had answered. 

“This is going to seem odd, but . . .” the woman was very hesitant.  “Would you consider having lunch with me?”

Belle was surprised.  “I . . . I . . .”

“I’m not a serial killer or insurance salesman or anything like that,” the woman promised her.  “I just need to talk with . . . someone.”  There was a long pause, “please.”

What harm could one lunch do?  “All right,” Belle agreed reluctantly.  She could always get up and leave _and she was burning to know more about this woman – who was she, what was she to Mr. Stiltskin?_   “Tomorrow, Rosetta’s Kitchen,” she suggested.

“One o’clock?”

“All right.”

“I’ll get a seat.  Ask for Miss Black.”  And the woman hung up.

 

Belle had not told Mr. Stiltskin about the call or the lunch date and now was feeling guilty about it, like she was cheating on the man or something.  She shoved it aside.  She really didn’t think she was betraying him by having a public lunch with this mysterious Miss Black.  And curiosity was consuming her.  _Why did her employer dislike, hate this woman so?_

 

“And who are you going out with tonight?” he demanded to know. 

She jumped.  She had been lost, ruminating over her luncheon decision while she was getting ready for her evening date.  She had dressed demurely in her usual style but with a little more elegance, a beautiful dark mauve crocheted dress that draped over a delicate cotton underdress.  She wore white stockings and her usual black clogs.  But she had put on makeup, mascara and lipstick and, he thought, a little cheek color. 

“Oh. . .  uh. . . . just someone,” she hedged when answering and he immediately knew that something was up.

“Who?”

She became defensive.  “You are not my father.  I don’t have to vet my dates to you,” she told him.

He knew she was up to something.   “Yeah, but you’d tell me straight out if you didn’t think I wouldn't approve.  Now who are you going out with?”

“It . . . it’s no one.  Just a nice guy I met.”

He waited.

“He’s a perfectly delightful man.”

He waited.

“I’ll have a good time and he’ll get me right back here before midnight, I’m sure.”

He waited.

“It’s Jefferson,” she finally caved.

“Ah,” he didn’t say anything else.  _He was not happy about this.  Jefferson was a great friend, but not the kind of friend who would be there to bail you out of jail.  No, Jefferson was the kind of friend who would be there sitting right next to you in the cell saying, “Damn, what a ride!”_

_And while generally Rumple could give a rat’s ass about who Jefferson dated, he knew he had a (well-deserved) reputation for being a tom cat.  He didn’t trust him with his little Belle._

_His little Belle._

Belle was still talking, “Listen, I know the guy has probably rolled up more towels and put them against more doors . . . and I’ve heard that he has this reputation and all, but he’s so charming . . . well, I just couldn’t keep saying no and I’m sure we’ll just have a fun, little time and keep everything casual and . . . “

“I’m sure it will just be a fun, little time,” he said dryly, repeating her words.

Belle seemed to relax.  _She had thought he would have objected more strenuously.  He seemed . . . well, almost all right with her going out with Jefferson._

Jefferson was late, not too late, but late nonetheless.  Belle, who seemed a bit nervous, had opted to go back to the bathroom for one last primping and wasn’t in the living room when the doorbell rang. 

Rumple answered it. Jefferson looked surprised.  “Oh,” he said.  “I didn’t realize . . .”

“What?  It _is_ my apartment,” Rumple said, stepping aside to let his friend in. 

“Yeah, but . . . uh . . . I’m here to pick up Belle,” Jefferson explained.  “We have a date.”

“I know you do,” Rumple said softly.  “Before she comes back out, I’m guessing I don’t have to tell you that . . . well, she’s kinda important to me -- precious you might say.”

“Ah ha! So, you do have feelings for her,” Jefferson was gleeful.

“I do, I admit it.  Do you know how difficult it is to get really good help?  Look at this place!  Plus, she keeps my calendar and makes the best damn hangover cure I’ve ever had.  You bet I have feelings for her.  And I would take it very, very personally if anything happened that upset Miss French.  I’m sure I can depend on your discretion and rely on you to take good care of her.”

Belle came out and beamed at Jefferson.

Jefferson glanced at her, then glanced at Rumple.

“Like she was your baby sister,” he promised and held out his hand to Belle.

Left alone, Rumple sat on his sofa.  He tried to watch television.  He rummaged through the fridge and then called up an order of Indian food.  He ate the Indian food.  He channel-surfed.  He got up and inventoried his brushes.  He cruised Netflix.  He went back into the studio and rifled around, pulling out his most recent sketches and pastels – most of them were of Belle or were street scenes from Asheville.  Then he went back to cable television and looked at On Demand.  He went back into the studio again and again began sorting through his pictures. 

It was interesting.  The street scenes were different from earlier works.  They seemed to have some element of brightness, of light.  And as for those pictures of Belle – there were quite a few of them. 

And they were the best things he’d ever done. 

He bundled them up and put them into one of the many drawers in one of the studio’s flat file cabinets. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT: Belle has an interesting date. Both Belle and Rumple get to their lunch dates. Rumple asks Belle for a favor.


	9. Luncheon Dates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle has an interesting date.   
> Both Belle and Rumple get to their lunch dates.   
> Rumple asks Belle for a favor.

_Rumple continues to receive calls from the mysterious Miss Black who has managed to get Belle to agree to a luncheon date.  Belle and Rumple go on a drive on the Blue Ridge and Rumple shares that he is a synesthesic – among other things, he equates colors, shapes and sounds.  Belle has gone on a date with Jefferson._

**The Date**

Jefferson was a delightful dining companion.  Everyone seemed to know him and like him.  He greeted maître D’s and waitstaff by their first names.  He knew the best wines to go with the best food.  He was fluently conversant on dozens of topics and passably so on everything else.  He was polite and clearly appreciative of Belle, complimenting her appearance.  He asked her how things were going with Rumple.

She sighed.  “He’s, well you know, he’s . . . Mr. Stiltskin.  He’s brilliant and talented and . . . “

“Unfocused and a bit lazy,” Jefferson finished for her.

She nodded.  “Sometimes,” she replied slowly. 

“He’s the most gifted artist I’ve ever met.  The man’s a certifiable genius,” Jefferson told her.  “He’s constantly searching for  . . . he calls it The Search for the Soul.  He’s wanting to dissect the inner psyche of a person and display it in its raw form.  His paintings seem to capture something indefinable, something I despair that I will never approach.”

“I’ve seen your work.  Your pieces are lovely.  Nobody uses color like you.”

“You don’t have to flatter me, Belle.  I know I’m ahead of my time . . . or before it . . . or outside of it . . . or something.  I’m just hoping my work will be appreciated when I die . . .  it’s not being appreciated while I’m alive.”  
  
Belle smiled at him.  “Well, I appreciate it,” she told him.

“You’re easy to impress,” he told her gently.  “I guess that’s why Rumple likes you so much.”

Belle stopped eating with her fork suspended in the air.  “Mr. Stiltskin likes me?”  _She knew she amused her employer, sometimes aggravated him, but she didn’t think he liked her._

“He dotes on you.  I can’t decide if he thinks of you as a would-be lover, a daughter or the damn finest personal assistant he's ever had,” Jefferson explained.

“You aren’t taking part of that horrible pool, are you?” she asked him, her eyes narrowing.

“You know about the pool?” Jefferson said slowly.

“Of course.  This is the one about how long I’ll work for him before I quit or he fires me?”

Jefferson gaped a moment.  “Uh . . . “ he began.

“It’s not about that, is it?” she asked him, speaking slowly, new suspicions arising.  “When I first heard about it, I assumed it was a pool as to when we’d end up sleeping together . . . and,” the truth slowly dawned on her, “Oh, it _is_ that, isn’t it?” she pressed him.

“Uh . . .” Jefferson felt himself growing warm.  “Yeah,” he finally admitted.  “And yeah, I’m in the pool.”  He sat quietly a moment.  “Do you want to buy a date?  I could pick one at random for you so you wouldn’t know when . . .” He trailed off.

Belle was just looking at him.  “This is what Mr. Stiltskin’s friends do?” she asked.  “They make these horrible bets.” _She shouldn’t be too offended – her tacky friends were doing exactly the same thing._

“We have to have some fun at his expense.”

“I’ve half a mind to get up and leave,” Belle told him.

Jefferson gave her his best little boy smile, “But you won’t, right?  I didn’t know you when I joined the pool.  I’ll take my money out.  How about that?”

“No,” she told him.  “Don’t bother.  I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun.”  She couldn’t bring herself to be too judgmental.  “But,” she looked sidelong at her tall, pleasant date, “it’s not going to happen.” She thought a moment.  “Hey, what happens when it never happens.  I mean, what happens to the money?”

“We donate it.  Corella started the pool so she gets to pick the charity.  She’ll pick something like Furs for Orphans.”

Belle snickered.

 _Funny, she thought.  Even when Mr. Stiltskin_ _didn’t show up, he still managed to show up._

**Eleven P.M.**

Rumple was still sitting in front of the television set when the door opened.

Silhouetted in the doorway he could see the lovely rounded figure of his little maid pressed up against the long, lanky figure of his best friend. 

“I had a lovely time, Jefferson.  Thank you.”

“Me too, Belle.  It was great.”

The shadow figures started to get really close.  Rumple switched on a light. 

“Wha-at?” he shouted.  “Oh, it’s you two,” he tried to sound surprised.  “Wanna come in and get a beer or coffee or whatever . . . how about a Nagroni?” Rumple asked Jefferson.

There was a bit of pause before Jefferson answered.  “No, I think I’ll be heading on back home.” 

Belle glared at Rumple but he ignored her.  She turned back to Jefferson, “You don’t have to go.  He’s just being a jerk.”

“When she says ‘jerk,’ she means arse,” Rumple translated.  “She’s too nice to say arse.”

“Yeah, I thought as much, but . . . uh . . . I do have to go.  Belle, thank you,” and glancing over at Rumple, Jefferson leaned down and kissed Belle on the forehead. 

He had gone out the door when Belle turned on Rumple.  “Did you threaten him or something?” she demanded to know.

“What?!” he asked, quite innocently.

“I felt like the guy kept looking over his shoulder the entire time we were out together.”

“Miss French, I know Jefferson.  The man maintains a harem.  There are always several women, sometimes a guy or two, hanging around in his apartment.”

“Well, I was just going on a date with the man, not interviewing for a new personal assistant or . . . or . . . “ she hesitated, searching for the right words.

“Trolling for a new pole man?” Rumple asked.

She blew out air, forcibly.  “You’re still interfering.  You just can’t help yourself.”

“I don’t think that Jefferson would be good for you.  I wouldn’t let my sister or my daughter, if I had one, go out with him.  I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go out with him.”

“I’m not your sister or your daughter,” she nearly screamed at him.

“No, you’re not,” he agreed.  “You’re my friend.”

Belle stood a moment silently.  “I’m your friend?” she asked.

“Yeah. . .  yeah, I think so,” he answered _as if the information surprised him as well_.  “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.  You’re someone who doesn’t do casual and that’s all that Jefferson does.”

Belle stood a moment.  “Why don’t I get us some coffee?” she finally said.

“How about some macha latte?” he asked.

“Even better,” Belle agreed.

“So where did he take you?  What did you do?” he asked.

“Now you sound like my mother,” Belle told him, smiling.  She shook her head and began to prep the lattes. 

**Luncheons**

“I’m meeting my son for lunch,” he told her as he was going out the door.

“Yes sir.”  This meshed with her own plans as well.  With him gone, she wouldn’t have to concoct some reason to be out of the house during lunchtime.  She was having second thoughts . . . and third thoughts about this meeting with Miss Black – as if she was betraying the man. 

_It’s just a lunch date, she told herself.  You aren’t committing to anything._

Belle shook herself.  _You’re as bad as he is, intruding into his life like he intrudes into yours._

But she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop herself.  All her life, her curiosity had gotten her into trouble . . . and today’s luncheon was likely to be just another page in that story.

**Early Girl**

Neal had made reservations at The Early Girl Eatery.  Rumple had gotten there first and remembered why he didn’t often eat at this restaurant – no alcohol on the menu.  He settled for some iced tea and sat, anxiously waiting. 

He figured there was a fifty-fifty chance that Neal might not show, that he would have second thoughts and decide he didn’t really need to clue his old man in on whatever was going on in his life. 

**Rosetta’s**

Belle was accustomed to the women in her employer’s life being drop-dead gorgeous beauties but the woman waiting for her at the vegan restaurant was head and shoulders above the rest of them.  She was a woman of a certain age but still stunning.  She had long lustrous black hair with a few well-placed grey streaks, impeccable makeup and nails done by an artist.  Her dress was simple but clearly designer and she was wearing heals that even the fashion unconscious Belle recognized were red-soled Christian Louboutin’s.

Belle felt like a little girl in her green print dress that was gathered under the bosom and tied with a pink ribbon.  It had little puffed short sleeves and a light rose-brown under-slip.  She had added brown stockings, pink round-toed shoes, a pink draping sweater, and completed the look with a little pink slouch hat with a crocheted flower on the brim.   

The elegantly dressed woman stood when Belle came up to her.  “Miss French, I can’t tell you how gratified I am that you would agree to meet with me.”

“Yes ma’am,” Belle replied and sat down.  The two women placed their lunch orders,  Miss Black ordering the salad and miso soup.  Belle, after some hesitation and Miss Black’s encouragement and assurance that she would pick up the check, ordered the veggie burger.

“What has Rumson told you about me?” Miss Black asked her as they sipped their hot tea and waited for their food.

“Only that he never wants to have any contact with you,” Belle shared.

“That’s all?”

“Yes ma’am,” Belle replied. 

The woman nodded and looked down at the table.  “I’m not sure what to do now,” she said, as much to herself as to Belle.

Belle had no idea what to say, so she just sat quietly.

The woman took a deep breath and began, “Miss French, I’m his mother.”

Belle gasped, “What?”

**Early Girl**

Neal came in through the screen door of the restaurant and Rumple waved to get his son’s attention.  It took everything in him not to jump up and hug his boy, now a young man. 

“How are you, dad?” Neal asked him, smiling and taking a seat.

“All right,” Rumple answered him.  “Better, since your mother has moved back to New York.”

“You do know that she still has her apartment here and pops back into town every other weekend?” Neal asked him.

“What?”

“Oh, you didn’t know. I guess, she still has loose ends she’s tying up.”

“Or she’s keeping her options open.” _This was not welcome news.  He had hoped Milah had packed her bras and panties and moved back to New York._

“Do I understand you lent her money for Jones to do a play?” Neal asked.

Rumple winced.  “It was a business arrangement.”

“You know you’ll never see that money again.  Dad, you’re such a soft touch.”

“I’m hoping this play thing will work out in my favor,” Rumple began to explain weakly.

“Well, me too.”

 _Enough small talk, Rumple thought._ “Tell me about this young lady you mentioned.”

“Let’s order first, Dad,” Neal suggested and flagged down a waitress.  Neal got the meatloaf while Rumple got the catfish. 

“All right now.  Tell me about the young lady,” Rumple tried again.

“I will, but first, you tell me.  I’m hearing rumors that you have a little something-something going on with a young lady,” Neal answered.

Rumple was momentarily stymied and then . . . “Oh, you mean Miss French?”  He snorted and shook his head, “I have a new maid.”

“Who, I hear, is pretty and smart,” Neal was enjoying this.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m not doing the maid!  She’s probably younger than you are.”

“Well, I heard through Jefferson that she’s very doable.”

“Jefferson is a hound dog.”

“But he recognizes talent.”

“All right,” Rumple sat back and stared at his son.  “She’s bossy.  She reads half the time when she’s supposed to be working. She dresses stupid.”

“Is she cute?” Neal asked.

Rumple nervously licked his lips.  “She’s beautiful,” he admitted.  “I’ve been drawing her and she’s . . .  luminous.”  He looked up at this son.  “But I’m not doing her.”

**Rosetta’s**

“I’m his mother,” Miss Black repeated.  “But . . . well, I’ve never really been his mother.”  She swallowed and began again.  “I walked out on him and his father before he turned two and I never had any more contact with either of them.  But, well, now, I just . . . I want him to know I’m sorry.  I don’t want anything from him.” She stopped and shook her head.  “That’s not true.  I guess, I would like forgiveness but I can’t imagine that will ever be forthcoming.  Why should he forgive me?  I can’t forgive myself.”

“What happened?” Belle couldn’t help herself from asking.

Miss Black looked down at her napkin and didn’t answer right away.  She looked up at Belle before she started talking, “I am from a very well-to-do, quite prominent family. And I was their wild child.  When I was fifteen, I met his father.”

Belle cringed.

Miss Black smiled, “I see you’ve met Malcolm.”

“Yes,” Belle admitted. 

“You’re probably wondering how any woman could have gotten close to Malcolm.  Was she drunk?  Was she assaulted?  Had she lost a bet?”

“I would guess that when he was younger, he was attractive and . . . maybe . . . charming?” Belle guessed.

“Miss French, it’s not easy to confess, but I . . . I fell in love with Malcolm Stiltskin.”

Belle barely stopped herself from gasping and shouting out “noooo.”

Miss Black explained, “Malcolm was eighteen and very charming and, I thought, quite handsome.  My family, however, thought he was extremely inappropriate for me, so, of course, I _had_ to keep seeing him, sneaking out to see him, running all around.  The more they disapproved, the more I was determined to be with him.”  She sipped her tea.

“So your family saw through him?” Belle asked.

“Did they realize that he was a scoundrel?  I don’t think that would have been a problem.  Their issue was that he came from a no-account family from up north.  They might have forgiven even that, if there had been money, but of course, there was no money.”

“So, it was . . . bloodlines?”  Belle hadn’t encountered this type of thinking in a while.

“Exactly.  Soon enough I got pregnant and ran away to live with him.  My family urged me to have an abortion but I didn’t want to.  I had this idealized vision of a perfect life with my One True Love.  But after a couple of months with no money and a squalling baby, I began to have regrets.” 

Miss Black took a breath before continuing.  “I knew Malcolm had a bit of wandering eye but I could forgive that.”

Belle knew where this was going.

Miss Black gave her a rueful smile.  “It was the wandering penis that I just couldn’t forgive. When he started bringing his whores back to our apartment, I’d had enough.  I knew my family would take me back, but they would never accept a half-Yankee grandchild. I didn’t think I could survive without their support.”

Their food had arrived. 

“I guess, I traded my child for a comfortable existence, one with money and prestige,” Miss Black confessed.

“So why do you want to connect with your son now?” Belle asked.

“Because I can.  My parents are dead and I have sole control of all the Black money, the estates, the businesses.  I had private detectives track him down and found out that my son was quite famous, very talented and doing quite well.  I think I might have been hoping that he was destitute and needed me and my money; it would have been easier to forge a relationship with him in that situation.  But he doesn’t need me now.  He won’t hear my apology.  He won’t have anything to do with me.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Belle asked the older woman.

“I guess, I feel the need to tell someone.  There isn’t anyone in my life that I feel close to.  I traded human companionship for money and power and . . . now I regret that.”  The older woman sighed, “I guess my life is a series of regrets.  I seem to have a penchant for making bad decisions.”

“I’m sorry,” Belle told her _wondering if the bad decisions trait was inheritable._

“What I would like from you, if you can in any small way, encourage Rumson to meet with me, talk with me, have any contact from me, well . . .” Miss Black smiled at her _and Belle could see her son’s smile in the woman,_ “I would, shall we say, be very, very grateful.  And I’m in the position to express my gratitude in different ways, through influence, through money, through opportunity.”

Belle had to speak up.  “Miss Black, you should know that I work primarily as your son’s maid.  I have no influence on him whatsoever and, even if I did, well, I think this is something he has to work out for himself.”

Miss Black nodded.  “I understand.  But should anything open up and you have the opportunity to put a word in . . .”  She paused again.  “Miss French, I understand that your father is not doing well and you are considering placement in an assisted living facility.  Wouldn’t you like him in the best program that is available rather than just one you might be able to afford?”

Belle put her fork down.  “Are you trying to bribe me?”

**Early Girl**

“I want you to meet her, dad.  She’s gorgeous and smart and . . .” Neal smiled. “and bossy and doesn’t dress very well – it does seem like we have some similar tastes in females.”

“And you're thinking this could be serious?” Rumple asked.

“I am.  I don’t know how she feels but, I’m pretty sure it’s the same.”

“You’ve never introduced any of your girlfriends to me.  This one must be special,” Rumple said quietly.  “I would very much like to meet her.”

“Great.”  The two men were finishing up their lunches.  “This has been a good time, dad, even though all we seemed to talk about were the women in our life.  But this has been good.”

Rumple had to agree.

**Rosetta’s**

Belle was offended _appalled_ even as Miss Black continued talking, “Oh no.  I’m just letting you know that there may be an opportunity here for you, at very little to cost to yourself.”

Belle found her appetite was gone.  “Thank you, Miss Black.  This has been an interesting lunch.”  Belle reached for her bag and was preparing to leave.

Miss Black reached for her.  “Oh dear, I’ve offended you and I did not mean to.  I . . .  I guess I’m just that desperate and willing to do whatever I have to . . . to reconnect with my child.  I’m so ashamed.  Please, please forgive me.”  She wiped her face with her hands _perhaps brushing away tears._

Belle relaxed for a moment. _She wasn’t willing to trust this woman, but she did seem genuinely distressed._

“Listen,” she told Miss Black.  “I cannot agree to trying to get him to respond to you if he is not interested.  I have to respect the man’s privacy and his decision on this very personal matter.  But . . “ Miss Black looked up,  “What I can do, if he asks and only if he asks, is suggest that he at least talk to you.”

“That would be wonderful, Miss French.  Thank you.”

The two women took a couple more bites of their food. 

“I guess, if I offered to help fund a quality placement for your father now, you wouldn’t be comfortable accepting?” Miss Black asked her shyly.

“It’s very tempting, but no.  I . . . no . . . thank you,” Belle told her.  _But it was tempting, very tempting.  She’d seen the places her father could afford and they were cold, barren facilities with over-worked staff and little to offer the clients in the way of recreation._

 _It was very tempting indeed._     

**The Soiree**

“I don’t wanna go,” he complained, flopping down into a chair.   He’d come home from his great luncheon date with his son and had gotten a call from Regina.  She had come over with an unpleasant demand – that he follow up on a previous obligation.

Belle was in another room cleaning the floor.  He and Regina could hear the purr of the vaccum while they sat in his living room.

Regina was nodding as she spoke to Rumple, “I completely understand.  It’s my mother and I don’t want to go.”

“Well, you have an even better reason not to go than I do,” Rumple told her.

“Perhaps, but there is a lot of money on the line.  You have to go.”

“I don’t have to. I don’t have to do anything,” he protested. 

“Yes, you do.  You’re actually under contract.  It’s an old agreement when you sold the rights to _The Rose Dance._ You agreed to make up to two appearances a year to promote the movie over the next three years.  This is the first time anyone has evoked this particular clause.  You are obligated to go or there will be a helluva lawsuit.  You can’t afford the bad publicity from a lawsuit at the moment.”

Belle had entered the room.  She was pushing the vacuum with one hand and was engrossed in reading the book she held in the other hand.

“Bu. . . uuut, I’ll have to be in the same room as your mother,” he was still complaining.

“Well, hell, take somebody.  Get a great-bodied twenty-something and parade her around like arm-candy,” Regina suggested. 

“Revenge is a dish best served as a hot young thing?” he asked.

“Yeah.  Who can you get that will make my mother spit nails of jealously?” Regina pondered.

He shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Jefferson might know somebody.  He knows all these gorgeous women.”

“Jefferson knows a lot of gorgeous airheads.  You need somebody’s who’s also got three digits in her IQ, not some vapid little thing who’s going to take ten minutes to get her thought together,” Regina chastised him.

“Oh, well, that helps. I need somebody who’s young, gorgeous _and_ smart . . . and someone your mother doesn’t know.  Shouldn’t be too hard, I mean, there must be, what, two or four women like that in the city.”

Regina did not respond right away.  She was looking at Belle who was still engaged with her book, mouthing the words as she read and vacuumed.

Rumple looked over at his maid.  “What are you reading?” he asked her curiously.

Belle startled.  She hadn’t realized they were in the living room.  She turned off the vacuum and answered, “I’m so sorry.  I was reading and didn’t know you were in here.”  She started backing out the door dragging the vacuum behind her. 

“What are you reading?” Rumple repeated his question.

Belle looked down at her book, “Oh, _L’Étranger_. . . uh. . . _The Stranger . . ._ by Camu.  I’m re-reading it in the original French.  Things lose something in translation,” she pulled a face as she explained.

Regina called out to her, “Wait.”  She looked over at Rumple.

He caught Regina’s look but shook his head.  _Miss French?  As arm candy?  His dowdy-dressing, round-toed shoe wearing, Miss No Makeup I’m So Natural maid?_

“Why not?  My mother doesn’t know her.  She’s the right age and there clearly won’t be a problem with her needing to ‘fake smart.’  She just needs some polish, Rum.  I could get some of my girls working on her.  She’s . . .  got potential, tons of potential.”  Regina got up and walked over to Belle who was standing still by her vacuum holding her book.  

“Look at her, Rum,” Regina continued.  “She’s got great skin, gorgeous eyes.  Now, the hair . . .  that would need some work.  And, of course, the clothing is totally objectionable, but I’m guessing there’s a cute little figure under all that bulk.”

Rumple considered.  He knew his maid was a beauty but to dress her up and take her to one of Cora’s events just to make Cora jealous?  _No, not just to make her jealous – to make Cora regret dumping him for someone richer, to make her sad that she hadn’t stuck with him, to make her think she could be easily replaced with a younger, hotter model?_

Regina persisted, “I’d need a couple of hours for hair, makeup and dress selection, but I could totally get this done.”

Belle was looking back and forth between Rumple and Regina.    

“What?”  she asked.  “Wha-at?”

Rumple smiled, “I need a bit of favor, dearie.  There’d be a nice . . . very nice, bonus in it for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Rumple and Belle attend a party.


	10. Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumple and Belle attend a party.  
> Belle gets some distressing news.

 

_Belle has met with the enigmatic Miss Black who has been calling Rumple and discovered that the woman is his estranged and somewhat sinister mother.   Later Rumple and Regina have been discussing their required attendance at an event hosted by Regina’s mother.  Rumple has agreed to go if he can take an attractive and smart date and both he and Regina have decided that Belle just might be able to pull off the role._

**Getting Ready**

_What had she gotten herself into?_

_“_ We’re going for lustrous mahogany here,” the little blond hairdresser had told Regina.  “It’s not a fashionable color, but with the right touches it could make her a standout.”

Belle had stepped onto a conveyor belt of a seemingly endless stream of exotic treatments, beginning with some hair treatment where they’d put some highlights into her dull hair and some hyper-expensive conditioning treatment, also to get the dull out.

Regina had stood by, directing the manicurist to give her a French Nail on her hands and her feet.  She’d also gotten a brightening facial – nothing too extreme since she would be going out that very evening.  In short order, Belle had been pumiced, waxed, buffed, glossed and primed.  Belle had protested the waxing – who was going to be looking at her _that_ closely, but Regina had insisted on the full-body treatment. 

“You’ll love how it makes you feel,” she promised the younger woman.

And then Regina had called in her favorite makeup artist.

“I think a natural look?” Regina had suggested.

“But with some sophisticated touches – perhaps a little hint of golden cream on the eyelids, grapefruit on the cheeks and a raspberry lipstick.  Black mascara – you’ve got great lashes, my dear.”

“Thank you,” Belle was not sure how else to respond.

“I’m having a selection of dresses brought in,” Regina told her.  “Rum has some very specific tastes and I will want to find something that I know he’ll approve of.”

And the dresses did come in.  With her hair still wrapped in foil and terrycloth, Belle began trying on a series of garments and Regina would snap a picture and send it to Rumple.  He’d send back a rating between one and ten.  There were a couple of dresses that Belle didn’t think she could possibly wear because of their revealing nature and no amount of cajoling from Regina, the hairdresser or makeup artist would change her mind. After more than an hour of dress-changing, Belle rebelled.

“Listen, if I’m supposed to be going as his date, I insist on some . . . on some autonomy.  I’m not an actress.  I have to go as myself and I need to pick my own clothes.”  When Regina rolled her eyes, Belle continued, “I understand that I have to go outside of my usual style.  I need to look like someone Mr. Stiltskin would ask out, but I think if I can keep some part of myself, the whole thing would work better.”

Regina considered, shushing the other women.  “So, what do you have in mind?”

Belle looked through the garments and made her selection.  She slipped it on and turned back to the other women.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked.

Regina stepped back and surveyed the total picture.  She looked at the hairdresser and makeup artist who both nodded at her.  She smiled.  “I think we’ll let Rum be surprised.”

**That Evening**

Rumple had put on one of his best suits, a black Armani with a long coat.  He’d chosen a snow-white shirt and black tie.  He looked himself over.  The clothes, at least, looked damn elegant.  As for his own appearance, he scowled.  He had a funny nose and an ordinary mouth.  His eyes were a plain brown and his hair, well, he was starting to show some gray amid the flat brown strands.  The suit helped – that was for sure.  He wanted to get Miss French’s opinion but . . . well, that wasn’t possible. 

He'd told Regina he’d pick up Miss French from her place and headed over.  He wasn’t looking forward to this affair.  His breakup with Cora had not just been painful, but also humiliating.

_Of course, most of his relationships with women were painful and humiliating, so why should that one have been any different?_

He rode the elevator up to Regina’s apartment.  It was in a relatively modest building downtown – still a hefty six figures, but not like Cora’s seven-figure penthouse.  Regina was clever with money, certainly more clever than he was and she’d invested well – invested his money well.  He didn’t have to worry about having a nice place to live, or food on the table, or excellent clothes.  He was grateful to her.

He also recognized that she owed him too.  He was easily her most successful client and, through him, she had met many of her other clients. 

They had what he liked to think was a symbiotic relationship – each benefitting the other. 

And she really wanted him at this soiree her mother was throwing.  There was money to be had, taken, just for showing up. 

He rang the doorbell. 

_And, he thought, she recognized that he didn’t want to go, that it was . . . awkward to say the least.  So, she’d put some effort into a plan that would enable him to go and, just perhaps, make it a little uncomfortable for her mother.  A win-win for her._

_But he still wasn’t sure how Miss French would work out, going as his date._

The door opened and Regina answered.  She was dressed in a deep red dress with a black lace wrap.  She’d put her hair up and put on a couple of layers of makeup.  She looked good.

“You look good,” he told her.

“So do you,” she replied.  “Come on in.  I think Belle is ready.  She’s pretty nervous.”

“Fuck, she’s nervous.  I’m terrified.  You quit sending me pictures of dresses so I’m anxious as to what you’ve put her in.  I don’t know that we’re going to be able to pull this off.  We’ve at least got to appear that we like each other and I’m not sure we can . . .” he trailed off.

Belle had come into the room.  She glanced at him and then looked down at the floor.  _She’d felt so confident when she had picked this dress, but now . . . maybe it wasn’t nice enough, sophisticated enough, pretty enough._

“My god,” she heard Mr. Stiltskin speaking reverently.  “Miss French, you look . . . you look . . . lovely.”

Belle looked up to meet his eyes.  He seemed honest, genuine.  “I thought you would like this dress.”

“It’s you,” he agreed. “Simple, yet beautiful.”  And it was, a simple gold dress, lacking embellishment, but draping beautifully, showing off her pert figure, a hint of cleavage, but not too much skin.  It was modest, but extraordinarily sexy.  Sexy -- without being trashy (a concept none of his previous dates had ever quite grasped). 

Belle blushed, the appreciation in his eyes warming her.  _She’d done a good job in picking out this dress._

“So, tell me again. What is it you want me to do?” she asked him.

“You’re arm candy,” he told her bluntly. “You don’t have to say anything, unless, of course, you want to – and then I’m expecting you to dazzle everyone.”  He smiled gently at her, “Just be yourself and . . . uh . . . hang on my every word and gaze at me with respect and admiration.”

“So, I’m pretending to be your girlfriend?” she asked him.

“My hot, smart girlfriend,” he explained.

She hesitated and then asked him, “Are we doing it?”

“Oh yes.  Twice a night and three times on Sunday,” he answered quickly.

Her eyes narrowed, “Are you going to get drunk?”

“Well . . .”

“I don’t want to go with you if you’re going to get drunk,” she told him honestly.

“Well, I have a certain reputation,” he began.  “People would wonder if I turned down a drink.”

“All right.  You can have one,” she reluctantly agreed.  “If you’re holding a drink, you won’t be offered another one.”

“One!  Oh, Miss French.  Five?” he began to deal brightly.

“One,” she repeated herself.

“Four?”

“One,” holding her ground

“Three?”  he looked at her so pitifully that she relented.

“Two and that’s final.”

“Two it is,” he told her.

“And you can’t be a jerk,” she told him.

“Can’t promise you that,” he answered her.    

**The Soiree**

Cora’s elegant party was an uncomfortable venue for both Rumple and Belle – for Rumple whose torrid relationship with Cora had ended in flaming humiliation and for Belle who felt she had nothing, absolutely nothing, in common with any of these people. 

Everyone was dressed elegantly and drinking signature drinks and laughing and exchanging _bon mots_.  They also seemed sophisticated and witty and Belle didn’t feel that she would be able to hold her own with anyone else there.  Initially she clung to Rumple, but slowly she found herself drawn into a discussion of French literature. 

Rumple was bored.  He was always bored at these affairs. He was even more bored now that Belle had left his side and was the center of some pompous pseudo-intellectual discussion about dead writers.  He heard the names, Camus, Sartre, de Beauvoir and Jarry.  He looked at his date.  She was smiling and animated – there almost seemed a glow about the woman.  Damn, but she was stunning.  And she looked like she was holding her own with the little cadre of genuine intellectuals.  

She so out-classed him.  He knew it well.  She should be with one of these people – not the sycophants or hangers-on but with some of the few genuinely talented, brilliant people Cora has coerced into coming. He also couldn’t help but notice that other men were checking her out.  He realized now that he was beginning to prefer her in her usual layers of full and free clothing, not in that figure-skimming dress.  Other men shouldn’t know how perfect her body was.  They shouldn’t be able to leer at the swell of her breasts or the curve of her behind. 

It was some small comfort that the other men, and women too, assumed he was doing her – that she shared his bed, that she allowed him to touch her and taste her.

Standing with the group of literati, Belle had initially felt nervous but had then begun to relax when she found that she was familiar with the authors being discussed and ventured a stray comment.  It was well received and soon enough she was drawn into the discussion. 

But, somehow, she was still feeling very nervous. 

Mr. Stiltskin had only convinced her to do this by promising to help pay for an assisted living placement for her father.  Her dad, while he had good days, was on a generally downward trajectory.  Belle had been able to work out the agreement with Leroy regarding the florist’s shop.  She’d been surprised when the irascible custodian had come to her with the idea of taking it over, but he had explained that he wanted a better paying opportunity so that he could marry his long-time girlfriend.  Despite his rough exterior, the man had an unexpected aptitude for floral arranging and plant care.  Financing had finally come through.  Leroy had no problems with her dad continuing to work in the shop – there were days when Maurice was able to be focused and productive.  The money for the shop and now Mr. Stiltskin’s contribution should be enough to cover a quality, albeit modest, placement.   

Oh, yes, she was feeling nervous again.  This time, what was making her nervous was no longer her ability to keep pace with the smart people in the crowd – _she was one of the smart people._ No, it was her ‘date.’  She had glanced over at Mr. Stiltskin and she was becoming concerned. He was bored and when Mr. Stiltskin was bored he could become quite . . . the jerk.  She was debating what to do when she heard a voice call her name.

Belle had turned to the voice and shrank back, “Keith.  I . . . I had not expected to see you here.”

“Well, that goes for me too.  Didn’t know you knew Cora.”

“I don’t.  I’m here as a plus one.” Belle felt Mr. Stiltskin’s eyes on her.  He was watching the scene, no longer bored.

“Well, honey, none of these stick-in-the-muds can be much fun.  Why don’t you ditch your date and sneak out with me?” Keith suggested.

“I wouldn’t be comfortable doing that.”

“What?  Why not?  Who’s your date?”

“The gentleman over there,” Belle gestured at Mr. Stiltskin.

“What? You mean, the old crippled guy?  He’s got a lot of money, right?  That’s why you’re with him.”  Keith looked over Rumple.  “Oh sweetie, he can’t be too impressive in the sack.  Can he even get it up without medication?”

“It’s none of your business, but I have no complaints,” Belle told the man. 

_One date and he thought she owed him something.  Creepy guy.  Please, please, don’t let Mr. Stiltskin come over here._

For the first time this evening, she desperately wanted to preserve the illusion that Mr. Stiltskin was her lover, hoping it would put Keith off.  She was concerned that Mr. Stiltskin would say or do something to blow the whole charade.  Social imperception and awkwardness – he might not read the situation correctly.

She glanced over and cringed.  Oh no, he was definitely coming over.

“Miss French, why don’t you introduce me to your . . . friend,” he suggested as he stepped in next to her.  And then he slipped his arm around her waist, his thumb resting just under her breast. 

“This is Keith . . . uh . . .” Belle realized that she didn’t know his name.  _She leaned back into Rumple, hoping he would figure out that his attentions were welcomed._

“Nottingham,” Keith supplied.  “Belle and me are old friends.”

“Really?” Rumple said, glancing at his little maid, a bit puzzled.  _Old friends? And she didn’t know his last name?  This guy didn’t seem her type at all.  Of course, he’d only met two of her dates, including Jefferson.  Maybe this yokel_ was _her type.  He would have thought she’d go for smart, clever men, not half-wit fuck-wits, but there was no accounting for a woman’s taste in men._

_And why was she leaning into him?_

“We had a single date that was a set-up.  Unfortunately, I became ill and had to leave early,” she explained to Rumple.  She turned her eyes to him and he thought that maybe, just maybe, he caught a glimpse of desperation in them.  _Her voice held off-key notes – not like the usual clear music he heard around the young woman._

_She didn’t like this guy._

_He was pretty sure – yeah,  pretty sure, she didn’t like the guy._

Rumple smiled at the big fellow, “Became ill and had to leave early,” he repeated Belle and then turned to Keith, “Your loss then.  She’s been with me a couple of months and she’s felt fine the whole time.”  _And he caught a barely perceptible nod from Miss French. Yeah, she wanted him to get rid of the lummox._

“Oh, come on,” Keith hissed.  “What is it?  You paying her or something?”

“Mr. Nottingham,” Rumple could feel Belle tensing up and felt a need to step in before the two came to blows.  “Miss French and I have a relationship based on mutual respect and an appreciation of the finer things.”  He glanced at Belle who gave him another nod.  _In for a penny._ “And really good sex, a lot of really good sex.  Now excuse us, please.  I believe we need to check in with our hostess.”  Reluctantly he released his firm grasp on the lively Miss French and stepped away. 

“I’ll just be a moment, darling,” Belle told him and gave him her most brilliant smile.

He leaned in and whispered, “Let me know if you need any more help getting rid of this buffoon.”  He pulled back knowing it had looked as if he had just kissed her ear.  He then stepped back into the crowd _although Belle felt sure that he was still keeping an eye on her._

“Respect and appreciation,” Belle repeated to Keith and _she couldn’t stop herself from adding,_ “those things and really, really great sex.  Nothing like a man with a little experience.”  And she grinned at Keith and stepped away herself.

After the altercation, she realized she needed something to drink – yes, she’d be going over her self-imposed limit but felt she had earned it.  She was trembling in her anger.     

She settled by a side-wall and watched the larger group, forcing herself to calm down.   Aside from a few exceptions, these people were all pretentious and self-absorbed.  She watched as many of them fawned over Rumple wanting to be able to brag to their friends that they knew him and had talked to him.  She watched him and knew he was becoming increasingly irritated.  She also saw that their hostess, a stunning older red-headed woman, was approaching him.  Belle quickly went over to his side – _this was, after all, why he had wanted her to accompany him to this party._

Rumple was well on his fifth drink when he felt Belle come up against his side.  He looked at her, a bit surprised, and then felt a cold chill descend on him.  He heard soured guitar notes.  He looked up and saw Cora.

“Well, darling,” Cora leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. 

He pulled away from her and pulled Belle in close to him.

“Hey Cora.  This is one of your nicer soirees,” he said affably. 

“Thank you,” Cora glanced over at Belle.  “Introduce me to your little friend.”

“Oh, this is Miss French.”

Cora reached for Belle’s hand to shake it, closely scrutinizing the young woman.  “So many of my guests have been talking about you, my dear.  They are all wondering about you.  You must tell me how you met Rumple, my dear.”

Belle couldn’t resist, “In my father’s shop.  Mr. Stiltskin was drunk.”

Cora didn’t immediately say anything, but finally smiled and nodded, “Of course, that does sound like our Rumple.”  She turned to Rumple, “She’s not your usual type.”

“No, she’s not,” he quickly agreed.  “She goes to the library.  She’s registered to vote.  She doesn’t have a tattoo with her old boyfriend’s name on her arse . . .  or an outstanding warrant.  Sooo different from the other women I’ve dated.”

Cora narrowed her eyes, “I’m sure she’s delightful.  You paying her by the schtupp or for the entire evening?” And she stalked off before either one of them could answer.

Belle realized she was seeing red – _perhaps some of his synesthesia was rubbing off onto her._

Rumple was smiling.  He leaned in to Belle and whispered, “When I met Cora she still had the tattoo and there was an outstanding warrant for passing bad checks.”

She leaned into Rumple and this time, she whispered in his ear.  “Forget what I said about not being a . . . a jerk.”

“You sure?” he asked her.

“Yes.  I can hold your drink if you like,” she told him.

He shook his head and finished what he had in his hand. “I got this.”  And he smiled at her and took his sixth drink.  He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and then joined a group and began to share as soon as he had an opening. 

“Well, I’ve known Cora for a while, a looong while.  When I first met her, she had ridden in from Buttfuck, Egypt.  Never been anywhere, done anything.  Kind of girl who had spent her prom night hanging out the window of her date’s pickup truck, swinging a ball bat at people’s mailboxes.  Her idea of class entertainment was hanging out at the local Bilo playing bingo.  No clue, let me tell you.”

He had his audience.

“She thought that cooking wine was what you were supposed to drink _while_ you were cooking.”  There was laughter and the audience increased.  “She thought the place to buy Christmas presents was the local gas station – scratch-offs for everyone!”  He had attracted Cora’s attention by now.

Rumple continued, “When we were in New York City and I was taking her out to Cesar Ramirez’s, I told her it was a three-star restaurant and she said, ‘Oh, is that like a really nice Olive Garden?’  She thought the stars were like movie ratings.”

The audience had grown and the laughter was louder.  Cora was now glaring at him from the sidelines.  When he signaled for a fresh drink she shook her head at the waiter. 

Cora sidled over to Belle.  “Mr. Stiltskin has had enough, don’t you think?  Perhaps you should be getting him back home,” she suggested.

Belle looked her over.  She looked back at Rumple who had just dropped another bit of background about Cora on the crowd.

“I can do that,” and she moved in on the man.  “Darling, this has been so interesting but we do have that thing tomorrow morning.”

He smiled at her.  “Sure, I guess it is time.” And he allowed himself to be led off by her. He seemed reasonably happy, almost smug.  Her coming with him seemed to have accomplished what he’d wanted it to do. 

“Now we can go. We can go now,” he told her stringing his words together sing-songy.  He let her lead him out of the place. 

He leaned into her as they walked the five blocks back to his apartment. 

“You’re very beautiful, you know that,” he muttered into her ear.

“You had more than two drinks,” she replied.

“I did?  I guess I lost count.  But I’ve certainly been more drunk than this.”

“Well,” Belle confessed.  “I had more than two drinks, too.”

They were both stumbling as they got into the stairwell of his apartment and ended up leaning on each other to get up the stairs.  Belle was focused enough to unlocked the door and got them both inside.  She shut the door and turned and was stunned when he pushed her against the wall and stepped up close to her, encaging her with his body and his arms set on both sides of her.  The room was dark and still.  There was heat from their bodies and they remained still for a long moment.

“Can I kiss you?” he finally asked.

“No, I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she told him.

“Oh,” he seemed very disappointed.  “Is it because I’m drunk?” he asked.

“That’s a big part of it.  But you’re also my employer.  And I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to become . . . uh . . . familiar with each other.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”  He was still leaned up into her, his body pressed warmly against hers.  His hand caressed the side of her face.  “You’re still very beautiful.  And smart.  I’ve never been with a smart woman before.  I’ve known some smart women, but all of my women have been, well, not smart.”

“Let’s get you back to your bedroom, sir,” Belle had returned to formality.  She wasn’t alarmed by his amorous actions but she thought it would be good to get him put down for the night.  _A good idea for both of them.  If they had remained close much longer, she would have almost certainly kissed him._

“Oookaaaay,” he complied and turned to go on to his own bed.

 

Before retiring, Belle went down to check on her father. She found him still, his breathing shallow and his skin clammy.  She called 911 and he was taken right on to the hospital.

Nothing like a medical emergency to sober a person up quickly.  Belle followed on to the hospital. From there she called Mr. Stiltskin to leave him a message letting him know what had happened and that she was at the hospital. 

Her father had had another heart attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT: Belle deals with her father’s medical issues.  
> Rumple makes an uncomfortable suggestion (and follows through with his end).


	11. A Kidney or Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle deals with her father’s medical issues  
> Rumple makes an uncomfortable suggestion (and follows through with his end)

_Belle has accompanied Rumple as his date for a fancy party given by his ex-lover.  It was a generally satisfying affair, with Belle being able to brush off unwelcome attentions from a previous date (with Rumple’s assistance) and Rumple being able to share stories about Cora -- painting her as an uncouth rube.  A drunken Rumple attempts to kiss Belle once they are back at his apartment but she is able to dissuade him._

_When Belle checks on her father before going to bed, she finds him unconscious.  He has had another heart attack._

 

Her father had had another heart attack and the hospital was recommending immediate by-pass surgery.  Belle signed forms and found herself sitting in an vinyl upholstered lounger in a sparse, darkened waiting room area.  She dozed off. 

It was James Whale, Ruby’s latest ex, who came to get her sometime before dawn, waking her up.  Her dad had made it through surgery and was doing as well as could be expected, but they wanted to keep him in intensive care.  It would be a while before she could get in to see him.  He offered her a blanket and suggested she settle in and someone would come and get her later in the morning to go in to see him.    Belle settled in for the rest of the night.

She was startled awake and surprised to see Mr. Stiltskin sitting next to her. 

“Wha-at time is it?” she asked confused.

“It’s after nine, in the morning,” he told her kindly.  “I got your message and when you didn’t call me with any updates, I got worried.  I called your phone but you didn’t answer.”

“Oh, I must have turned it off,” she checked the little device and nodded her head.  _Mr. Stiltskin was up at nine?_

“So, how’s he doing?” he asked her.

“He made it through surgery and is still in intensive care.  He can’t have visitors just yet.  I know the resident who’s helping on his case and I know they’re doing their best.”

“I’m sure they’re doing everything they can,” he assured her. 

They sat quietly together. 

“Why don’t we get a little breakfast?” he asked her gently.

“Oh . . . but I’m not really hungry,” she told him.

“It may be a while before you can get in to see your dad.  Why don’t I let the desk know that you’re going to get a bite to eat in the cafeteria?”

Belle considered.  She wasn’t hungry but she was aware that she should eat to keep her energy up, to help her cope.  She nodded numbly and allowed Rumple to lead her down to the cafeteria and help her pick out some food.  He paid and joined her at one of the Formica-topped tables.

“Let me see your phone,” he said, holding out his hand.

“It’s turned off,” she told him handing it over.  She watched and he turned it on. 

“You should let your friends know what’s going on, at least Ruby – she can let everyone else know,” he told her.

“All right.” She was feeling numb.

“I’m going to call her for you,” he told her and he put Ruby’s number into his phone.  “After you finish eating something.”

“Thank you.”  She picked at her food.  “They’ve already said,” and for the first time, tears started to come, “they’ve said that he’s going to need to be in some type of modified care unit – more than just the assisted living facility.”

“Miss French, let me do this for you.  I’ve already offered to help with the expenses,” he said softly.

“Your mother made a similar offer, you know.  She said if I could get you to talk to her, she’d pay for an upscale placement for him.”  Belle continued to be focused on her food and didn’t notice Mr. Stiltskin pulling back.

“You talked . . . you talked . . . with my mother?” he finally asked.

Belle glanced up.  “Ohhh, I’m sorry . . . yes . . . I did.  She sounded so pitiable, and begged me to meet her for lunch, and I didn’t know she was your mother, but after meeting her . . . Mr. Stiltskin, a lot of people complain about their parents, but . . . she’s harsh.”

“Did you agree to her terms?” he asked tightly.

“Oh, my goodness, no, of course not.  I felt like I was being bribed, maybe bullied.  I really didn’t like the woman.  She apologized for what she’d done – she told me she’d abandoned you when you were a toddler so she could get back the high life her family could give her – traded you for money and power – and now she felt sorry for what she had done.”

“So, what did you tell her?” he asked curiously.

“That it was your decision to make and I would have nothing to do with it.  She’s not called back since.”

Rumple picked at his own food.  “So, she just wanted to apologize, you think?  I figured she wanted a kidney or something.  That was the only reason I could think that she’d want to see me again.”

“She didn’t mention any health concerns,” Belle told him.  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have met with her without telling you, but I didn’t find out she was your mother until I got to the lunch.”

“I guess, no harm. I know you and I know my mother.  She parlayed on your insatiable curiosity.  It does seem to get you in trouble,” he gave her a forgiving smile.  “You just had to find out who this woman was.”

Belle nodded, clearly embarrassed.  “It was out of line, I know.  I really am sorry and I haven’t had any more contact with her.”

“I’m all right about it all, Miss French.”

“I take it she just left?” Belle asked.

“I don’t remember her or her leaving, just this sense of missing something, something very important.  It was different when my dad abandoned me – he left me with two very kind aunts who really worked hard to take good care of me.  Maybe what my father did was crueler – he promised he’d come back and see me and get me and we’d be a family together again some day – but he never did come back.”

“I guess I was lucky.  I do remember my mother – she was wonderful.  She was funny and creative and – she liked to cook and was always, always reading.”

“Was it . . . was it cancer?” Rumple asked.

Belle nodded.  “The biggest ogre of a disease ever.  I was twelve.  In some ways, I lost both my parents when she died.  My dad was never the same, he never recovered and ended up drowning himself in a bottle.  Her death changed him and took him away from me too.”

“I’m so sorry,” Rumple said – _what else was there to say?_

“The difference between us was I did have my parents’ love.  I never had any question of that.  Even now, although it probably doesn’t seem that way, my dad still loves me.  He’s just had too much going on in his own life to show it.”

“I would say you’ve been more fortunate,” Rumple told her.  They quietly finished a little more of their food and went back to the waiting room.

It was four hours more before an older doctor, Doctor Avalon, came out to talk to Belle.  She asked Rumple to come with her into the little consultation room.

“He’s doing very well, Belle.  He’s a very strong man,” the doctor explained.  He was an older, confident man, with wire-rimmed glasses and a warm, kind smile.  He suggested they call him ‘Doc,' as everyone on staff usually did.  He was Missions Hospital lead cardiologist.

“So, what’s the long-term prognosis?” she asked.

“Depends.  If he doesn’t start taking care of himself . . . not so good. But if he can quit the alcohol and the cigarettes, start eating right and start getting some mild exercise, he could do very well.”

“What would be the best way for him to get the help he needs?” Rumple asked.

“There are some recovery/rehab centers that would be ideal, but they’re pricey.”

“That’s not a problem,” Rumple told him.

“I’ll get one of the hospital social workers to share some information.”  Doc turned back to Belle, “Would you like to see him?  I can only give you about three minutes, you understand.”

“Yes, please,” Belle answered.

**Rumple has a Proposal**

Belle put the times of the ICU visiting hours into her phone.  Rumple insisted on driving her back to his apartment, leaving her little car in the hospital parking lot.  He would take her back in the evening so she could visit her dad again and she’d be able to drive herself back when she wasn’t so exhausted.

In two days, her father was moved out of ICU into a regular room and the staff started talking with her about a specialized placement. 

She was in the apartment, alone, when the phone rang.  Distracted she answered it, “Mr. Stiltskin’s residence.”

“Hello Belle.  How’s your father?” 

It was Miss Black.

“Belle?”

She hadn’t said anything.  She hadn’t responded, her breath momentarily taken away.

She sat up.  _How did the woman know about her father?_  Belle quickly regrouped, “He’s doing as well as can be expected,” she answered. 

She knew Mr. Stiltskin would have told her to just hang up the phone.  She was under no obligation to talk with this woman.

“I’m glad to hear that.  I just wanted to remind you that my offer still remains on the table.  Anytime you are interested.”

And the woman hung up. 

The call unsettled Belle.   _How had this woman known?  Was she having her watched?  Was someone Belle knew acting as an informant?_

She was still agitating over the call when Rumple came in.  He saw something was bothering his pretty maid immediately.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. _Had her father taken a turn for the worse?_

“Oh, nothing,” she promptly told him, but he just stood and looked at her steadily.  “It’s really nothing,” she repeated.  He continued to stare her down.  “It was your mother.”

“Ah,” was all he said.  He poured himself a drink of red wine from the credenza and held up the glass to her.  Belle hesitated only a moment before accepting it.  He then poured himself another glass. 

“I told you that she had offered to put my dad up in a nice facility if I would talk you into contacting her.”

“And you were properly offended and told her to go fuck herself,” Rumple said, then amended, “uh . . . you told her that you weren’t interested.”

“She called to make the offer again,” Belle said.

“And now you’re wondering . . . if you should take the offer?”

“I’m wondering how she knew about my father,” Belle explained.

“Oh, well, that I can help you with,” Rumple sat down and motioned for her to take a seat across from him.  “I cannot impress upon you just how wealthy, how well-heeled and connected my mother is.  She’s got a butt load of money and she’s played it all over town.  No end of people are on her payroll, like they’re on a retainer to get back with her on things that happen in my life and, now apparently, in your life.”

“That’s creepy,” Belle was repelled.

“Well, yeah, that pretty much describes my mother,” Rumple agreed.  He took another sip considering something.  “You know, I was just thinking . . .”

Belle was ahead of him.  “No, no, don’t you dare,” she warned him.

“Let’s think this through,” he stopped her.  “We could wait a few days, not too long, but not too soon and I could call her.  I would let her know that you encouraged me to give her a call.” 

Belle was shaking her head as Rumple expounded.

“No, no,” she told him. “I was wrong to have ever agreed to meet up with her.  I’m so sorry and I just want out of it all.”

He ignored her as a plan took form.  “I could agree to meet with her and listen to whatever distorted crap she wanted to share with me and then . . . walk away.  That would take care of your father and maybe, just maybe, get her to stop calling you  . . .  and maybe stop calling me.”

“Oh, I can’t let you do this,” Belle told him.  “I knew you didn’t want to have any contact with her and now I know why.  She’s . . . she’s . . .” Belle floundered trying to find the right word.

“Venile,” Rumple told her.  “Manipulative, spiteful, vengeful . . .  evil.  But if it gives your dad the best possible care – I can put up with her for a couple of hours.  Small price to pay.”

“I don’t know about this,” protested Belle.

“I know I had agreed to help pay for your father, but I think this is sooo much better.  The woman owes me, Miss French, big time.  I wouldn’t object to her picking up on this responsibility.  It’s not like it’s going to make a dent in her fortune – the woman’s richer than the Queen.”

“But you have to meet with her.”

“Hell, have you not met any of the women I used to have sex with – Milah, Cora, Zelena?  I think I’ll be able to take care of myself having lunch with my mother,” he promised.

**Luncheon**

In two days, Rumple had called his mother and agreed to a luncheon at the Red Stag, an upscale restaurant in Biltmore Village. 

He recognized her instantly – an elegantly dressed woman, perfectly made up, impeccably dressed.  She’d been waiting for him.  He had intentionally dressed in old, torn jeans, a crumpled t-shirt, and well-worn Birkenstocks.  He had neglected to shave.  He slouched down in the seat across from her.

“I was concerned that you might not come,” she told him softly.

“Considered blowing it off,” he admitted. 

“I’m so very glad you came.  It’s more than I deserve,” she told him.

Rumple looked at his mother, taking in her appearance, her demeanor.  She was a beautiful woman, even now.  She easily looked twenty years younger than what he knew her age to be – _likely due to the benefits of plastic surgery and high-end cosmetological care._   She moved deliberately, no effort wasted.  She was confident, with the confidence that comes from knowing you have enough money to buy yourself out of any crisis, up to and including murder.  His first impression was that she was playing the pity card, like she actually regretted what she had done.

He didn’t say anything.  The waiter came and they placed their orders for wine and food.

“Your caretaker is very nice,” she began, perhaps searching for a topic that was more neutral that the elephants that were squatting between them.

“She is and I would appreciate you not bothering her again,” Rumple told his mother.  “You know I wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t told me I needed to come hear you out.”  _There, that ought to cement his mother’s debt to Miss French.  He’d be following up to be sure his mother kept her word._

“I’m very sorry for  . . . for everything,” she looked at him, tears welling in her eyes. 

_Rumple had to admit to some burgeoning curiosity.  He remembered his father sharing that his mother was a consummate actress and could fake any feeling she needed to, but that she was really and truly devoid of feelings, at least the kinder, nurturing feelings.  His father had talked about how beautiful his mother had been, but how she had been able to turn her back on both him and her infant son when money and power beckoned her back to the fold._

_He'd always thought that his father was just angry at his mother for abandoning them – although Rumple knew his father certainly hadn’t been any prize.  The woman could have simply gotten tired of his tomcatting and the stress of having to care for an infant with no reliable income.  If she’d been raised in luxury, as he had been told, then the allure of living on love alone would have soon lost its appeal, especially if there wasn’t a lot of love to go around._

_Watching his mother, however, Rumple began to sense other things.  He heard the seductive notes of an oboe, like a snake charmer might use.  The air was thick with the smell of sickly sweet perfume, like magnolias that had gone off.  It was enough to make him sleepy, drugged sleepy, not tired sleepy.  When she spoke, there was the high, crashing sounds of fine crystal breaking._

_He knew he couldn’t trust her._

“Were you just wanting to tell me you were sorry about abandoning me, leaving me in the care of my drunken, philandering father?  Or was there something else?” he asked, getting right to the point.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness  . . . or understanding . . . or even tolerance,” she answered.

“What then?”

“I just wanted you to know how I felt.  And to let you know that I’ve made some changes in my will.  You stand to inherit a great deal of money.”

“So, are you dying?  I mean, can I expect a payoff any time soon?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking sharply.

She gave him a slight smile. “I deserved that.  Sorry, dearie, but I am in good health,” she told him.

He snorted, “You know I was halfway expecting to find out that you needed some body part or something.”

She smiled again and nodded.  “I understand.  If there is anything I can ever do . . . for you, you need only approach me.  I can’t make up for what I did, but I can start today with being there for you.”

Rumple suppressed a shiver.  He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was conversing with a spider.  His mother seemed so conciliatory, so kind, so friendly.  Yet he didn’t trust her, _couldn’t trust her_. 

Their food came and he picked it over.  He drank the wine – it was good wine.

“So, what all are you up to now?” he asked her.

“Just the usual family business,” she evaded his question.  “Tell me what are you working on.”

“Usual stuff.  Painting now . . . mostly,” he gave her the short version. “Maybe a little music.”

“Of course, I went to all of your plays, you know . . .  when they were on Broadway.  And I’ve got some of your art work.  I can’t imagine where your talent comes from.  Not from me and certainly not from your father,” she said kindly.  “The music, the painting, the writing – you seem to have it all.”

“It’s been speculated that my difficult childhood played a role in generating my creative abilities,” he said caustically.  “I’m working out my issues.”

She blinked.

“You look good,” she told him changing the subject.  “I’ve seen your picture in the tabloids.  You’ve got my fashion sense even though sometimes, like now, you channel your father’s sensibilities.”

“Probably,” he agreed.

“I would like to have a  . . . speaking relationship with you,” she confessed.

“You’re not looking forward to Thanksgiving with all the family gathered around the table, are you?”

She shuddered and shook her head.  “Not hardly . . . and neither are you.  I’d like to meet with you once a week.”

“Once every six months,” he counter-offered.

“Every six weeks,” she quickly negotiated.

“Just a luncheon?” he asked to be sure.

She nodded, “Just a luncheon,” she confirmed.  “Unless, of course, you ever want to meet sooner or more often.”

“Not a chance,” he told her, making eye contact.

She gave him a slow smile _and he knew that whatever her game had been, she had just won._ “This has been good.  I’m pleased with how this went.”

“Well, Mother, this has been real,” he said.  He finished his wine and left.

Belle was waiting for him when he got back to the apartment.

“How did it go?” she asked, her eyes wide with concern.

“It was cold and dark.  I kept expecting her eyes to glint red -- for additional arms and legs to come out of her body while a web dropped down on me and she wrapped it around me, so she could hang me up and suck out my life force later.  But, I forgot -- in many ways, she already did that.”

Belle stood still while she listened.

“It was also very civilized -- on the surface.  She said she was sorry but wasn’t expecting me to accept the apology.  She wants to meet with me once every six weeks.  And she let me know that, right now, I’m in the will.”

“Do you think she’ll threaten to take you out of the will if you don’t do what she wants you to?” Belle asked.

“Perhaps, but she’s got to know that I could give a flying fuck about her money, even though, even I would admit, it’s a lot of money.”

“Do you think she understands that someone would ever refuse money, especially a lot of money?” Belle asked.

“I doubt it.  I don’t trust my father’s description of . . . well, anything, but he described her as devoid of feelings and . . .  I think he was right,” Rumple confessed. 

“So do you think there is some hidden agenda?” Belle asked.

“Of course, there is,” he agreed.

**Follow Through**

Miss Black had been true to her word.  Belle’s father had been able to find a placement in one of the nicest facilities, complete with trained staff, including specialists, once he was released from the hospital.  It was probably the nicest place the man had ever lived in.  Belle was able to get out to see him a few times during the first week and was satisfied that he had adjusted and was making progress.  She’d come back from one of her visits and was combing out her hair when Rumple had come in bearing take-away boxes. 

“Oh, how sweet. You got supper,” she noticed.

“I thought you’d be too tired to cook.  You’ve been running yourself pretty ragged.”

“I have and,” she paused.  “Listen,” she’d told him. “I’d made plans to connect with some of my girlfriends tomorrow night.  I will let you know where we’re going.”

“I think it's a good idea for you to take an evening off,” he’d answered. “And, if I know where you are going, I will solemnly swear not to show up there.”  He asked her more about her father and listened quietly while she shared how happy she was with his placement.

“Sounds like my mother came through,” he said.

“Yes, I guess she did.  I only hope the cost doesn’t turn out to be too high,” Belle told him.

**The Following Night**

Belle was excited.  She had not had a chance to hang with her besties in a while.  Plus, Mr. Stiltskin had paid her, so she had money.  She put on one of her best floral patchwork dresses over a flouncy white slip, white lacy socks and brown round-toed shoes.  She’d found a straw hat with a lace band to top things off.

“Sir, we’re going to the Green Dragon,” she told him, naming their usual bar.

“I hear you and I solemnly swear I will not enter, walk by or call the Green Dragon for the next twelve hours,” he told her with a flourish and a bow.

She couldn’t stop herself from smiling.  “Thank you, sir.”

It was just lovely.  All of her friends _and no erratic artistic genius with unpredictable behavior_ were there. 

He seemed all right with her going out with her girlfriends – it was when she went out with a man that he got all hyper-protective and generally obnoxious.  

She and her friends shared a couple of drinks. They shared little things going on in their lives.  They were having a good time, something Belle really needed to have at the moment. 

Then, Mary Margaret stood up and shared that she had a special announcement.  They all turned to look at her and, after taking a deep breath, she spoke. 

She was getting married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belle has a meltdown.  
> Rumple steps up (and things heat up)


	12. Avoid the Sticky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle has a meltdown and Rumple steps up (and things heat up)

_Belle’s father has a long recovery process ahead of him.  When Belle reveals to Rumple that his mother has offered to pay for an upscale facility in exchange for contact with him, Rumple agrees to meet with his mother.  The luncheon is uneventful except for an agreement to meet every six weeks for lunch; however, Rumple is not left disposed favorably toward his ruthless mother.  At a Girls’ Night Out, Mary Margaret has revealed that she is to be married._

It wasn’t unexpected, but the girls universally screamed and jumped up and down.  Belle rejoiced too.  She was genuinely happy for her friend. 

“So how did he propose?” asked Ruby, getting everyone sitting back down in their booth.

“Oh, he talked with my dad first and did the whole restaurant, diamond ring in a glass of champagne thing.  He went down on one knee and promised me his undying love and devotion and . . . oh, it was wonderful.  Everything I’d ever dreamed of.”

“That was the proposal you’ve dreamed of?” Emma asked _obviously this was not the proposal she had dreamed of._

“Well, yeah.  What do you dream of?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Oh, nothing really.”  Emma hesitated.  “Well, maybe like we’re on a roller coaster and he leans over and whispers in my ear, right as we’re about to go over the steepest hill, ‘Do you want to marry me?’  And then we drop down, so I can’t answer the question right away.  And as we came up on the straight away, I can begin shouting, ‘yes, yes, yes!’”

“All right,” Mary Margaret replied neutrally.  “What’s your dream wedding like?”

“Justice of the Peace, City Hall.  I’m just not into anything I might have to wear pantyhose for,” Emma replied.  “I suppose you want the white dress, walking down the aisle, somebody playing the harp . . .”

Mary Margaret interrupted her and pulled out a little notebook.  “A harp player!  I hadn’t thought of that.  That would be perfect.  I’ll have to see if I can find one.”

The other three women looked at each other and smiled.  They knew that Mary Margaret was going to be wholly focused on this wedding for the foreseeable future.

Emma asked Ruby, “How about you?  Do you have a dream proposal, dream wedding?

“I used to figure the guy would roll over in the bed and swat me on my butt and say something like, ‘Hon, what say we go for it?’” Ruby began.  “But, well, being around Archie – I think he might go more for the formal proposal shtick – maybe on a little boat ride with fireworks in the background.”

“But you’re not ready to settle down, are you?” Belle asked.  When Ruby didn’t answer right away, Belle sat up and repeated herself, “Are you?”

“I don’t know,” Ruby answered slowly.  “It has been different with Archie.  He’s really a lot of fun and, well, he has the same influence on me that you do, Belle.  He makes me stop and think before I act, which has been good.  And I . . . I think I’ve been good for him.  He’s shy and I get him to act just a little outrageously.  We’re good for each other.  I’ll have to see if I feel like this in a month, but right now, well, it feels really, really . . . right.”

“So, you’d do the whole wedding chapel thing?” Mary Margaret asked Ruby.

“Well, I think I could handle the formal proposal, but then I’d insist we catch a flight out to Vegas and get married in the Hunka Hunka Burning Love Chapel and then, in my fantasies, I’d win a million dollars playing slot machines afterwards,” Ruby continued.

“Sweet,” Emma agreed.  The three turned to Belle.

“Your turn,” Ruby said to her.

“Oh, I’ve never. . . I . . . well . . . oh, it’s silly.”

“Oh please, now we have _got_ to know,” Ruby continued to press.

“All right,” Belle reluctantly agreed to share. “I’ve always had this fantasy that I’m somewhere and it’s night and it’s cold and I’m riding in a carriage wrapped in a blanket and even though it’s starting to snow, I’m staying all warm and toasty because of the blanket and, of course, the guy.  And he brings out the little blue Tiffany box and proposes and then we get married on the top of the Empire State building.”

The other three women sat still for a moment. 

“That’s actually kinda nice,” Emma told her. 

“Well, it won’t happen,” Belle shut it off.  “I investigated the whole Empire State Building wedding option and, apparently, they only allow fourteen couples every year . . . on Valentine’s Day . . . to be married there. And the couples are chosen by lottery.  So, that part will never happen.  And I can’t imagine I’ll ever be in a carriage somewhere when it’s snowing. And, less likely, I will never be getting any ring from Tiffany’s.”

“But it’s still a pretty nice fantasy,” Ruby told her. 

**Going Nowhere**

It was only after, when she got home that the malaise set in. Belle had managed in the quiet of the morning with no problems.  She’d called and checked on her father and then she focused on the routine chores, the laundry and the general sprucing up, but once these mind-numbing tasks were completed, the depression hit.  She ended up on the sofa watching an old movie.

When Rumple roused, he found her sitting in front of the big television set with a carton of ice cream for company.  She was watching _Casablanca_ and was crying.  Her hair was in disarray and her nose was red. Her skin was blotchy and she was sniffing. 

He called the one person he knew with a lot of experience with women.

“Jefferson?” he whispered from the kitchen, keeping an eye on his maid.

“What up?”

“It’s Miss French,” he began.

“She okay?”

“I don’t think so.  She’s sitting on the sofa watching an old movie and eating ice cream out of the carton.”

There was a brief silence.  “All right.  Now, this is important.  What kind of ice cream is it?”

“How the hell should I know?!  The kind that comes in a carton.”

“Look to see if you can see what color it is,” Jefferson patiently explained.

Rumple peered out and looked as well as he could.  “It’s something white.  I can’t quite see what it is.”

“That’s not good,” Jefferson told him.  “Women eat chocolate when it’s something short-lived, like menstrual cramps or they find out an ex-boyfriend is getting married.  White ice cream is usually reserved for something more serious.”  Jefferson hesitated.  “Listen, is she putting anything into the ice cream?”

Rumple again stood and watched her a couple of moments.  “Yeah, she’s dropping something from a box into it and something . . . it looks like caramel topping.”

“Two things, huh?  You said she was watching a movie?”

“Yeah, it’s something in black and white,” Rumple told him.

“A black and white?  Shit man, this is serious.  You’re going to need to take action.  You could just try to get her high but seeing that it’s Belle . . .  well, she probably won’t go for that. The other thing, and this is harder, get her to wash her face, change her clothes and take her out for a meal.  Try to get her talking.  And this is very important – don’t try to fix her problems.  Just listen and reflect back to her whatever she says.  Look sorry and look interested.”

“I think I can do that,” Rumple told him.

“And, this is most important, really, really important.  Don’t end up in the sack with her. Do not. Do not. Do not. Women will start to come on to a man when they are this vulnerable, but you’d be taking the worst kind of advantage if you take her up on her offer.  And she’ll end up hating you.  Be all flattered and promise her another time, but don’t give in.”

Rumple sighed.  _So much to remember._ “All right then,” he thanked his friend and hung up.  He took a breath and went on out to the living room. 

“Are you all right?” _Why did he even ask that?  Of course, she wasn’t all right.  It was the middle of the afternoon.  She was watching an old black and white movie on television and was eating ice cream directly from the carton._

_And she was crying._

_And she looked like crap._

She shook her head and a fresh batch of tears seeped out of her.

He sat down next to her.

“Is your dad okay?” he had to ask.

She nodded.

“Did something else happen?” he asked.  _He was feeling very much out of his element confronted with the distraught young woman._

She nodded her head.  She then dropped something he didn’t quite recognize into the ice cream and topped it off by squirting the lot with caramel topping.

He hesitated.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. _No_. She sniffed.  She took a big bite of the ice cream. 

He nodded and sat back next to her. 

After a moment, she held out the gallon carton of ice cream and her spoon in his direction.  “Wan’ sum?” she asked.

He gave her a weak smile, “No, thanks,” he told her.  “What _are_ you eating?”  He was still puzzling over the _something_ she had dropped into the carton.

“Dulce de leche ice cream with caramel topping and cracker jacks.”

“Nice,” he responded neutrally. 

She took in a mouthful, sniffed and more tears seeped out of her eyes. 

He didn’t say anything but simply sat on the sofa next to her.  It was after Ingrid Bergman had walked into the café and had Dooley Wilson play _As Time Goes By,_ that Belle began to talk. 

“Everybody’s moving on except me,” she told him.

“Really?” he said as softly as he could.

“Emma’s got a steady boyfriend,” she stopped and gulped, “And Mary Margaret’s getting maaaarrrrrried!  And even Ruby, Ruby might be settling down.”

“Oooooh,” he said with some sudden insight. 

“And I’m left behind working as a maid,” she told him, sobbing into her ice cream.  “I’m never going to finish school.  I’m never gonna get married.  I’m going to be that loser friend who never amounts to anything.  I’m going to be cleaning your toilets when I’m forty.” 

“Oh, Miss French,” he told her.  She was suddenly leaning onto him, sobbing into his shoulder.  He found himself patting her while trying to avoid the sticky.  “It’s going to be all right.”

“No, it’s not!” she protested. “Look at my track record.  A closet homosexual, a guy who’s really in love with someone else, a fellow who’s probably a lying, cheating abuser, a serial dater and the nice guys I dated, I got one date with them and they all went on to somebody else.”

He wasn’t up to identifying each of her former beaus, but fortunately he was spared making any comment.

“And now I’m spending my days and nights cleaning up after  . . . “ she looked up at him, “yooouu.”  And a fresh batch of tears started.

He continued to pat her.  “You’re feeling that you’ll never meet the right guy, fall in love, get married, have children?”

She shook her head.  She was nearly lying on him.  His arm was around her and he doing his best to comfort her.  

“It’s hard, I know.” He told her.  “I’m a good deal older than you and I’m still wondering when I’ll meet that special someone.”

“But you’ve been married.  And you’ve had all these hook-ups with these glamourous women,” she said.

“Well, I admit there have been several times when I thought I’d met Miss Right . . .” he paused.  “But it turned out that she was just Miss Right Now.”

“Why can’t I find a nice guy?” she said sullenly into his shirt.  “I just want some man who’ll respect me and who won’t cheat on me.  Oh yeah, he should have a job.  That’s real important.”

“Ohhh,” he said smiling down at her.  “I can see what your problem is.”

She pulled back and looked directly into his eyes.  “What is it?” she asked her eyes widening.

“You’ve set the bar higher than pond scum,” he answered, dead seriously.

She looked at him a moment and her lips twitched.  “I don’t believe that.”

“Oh, it’s true.  Men, we always fail the expectations of our women.  We’re going to disappoint you.  We don’t mean to, well, most of us, well, some of us.  But, it happens.  Now,” he put his hands on her shoulders.  “Rather than allow you to induce a diabetic coma, I think I have an alternative.  I’ve got a friend who should be able to hook us up.”

Belle shook her head and pulled a face, “I don’t want drugs.”

“Oh . . . oh . . . of course not.  You wouldn’t want drugs. No, no, no, of course not.  I . . . I wasn’t offering drugs.”  _Plan B then._   “I. . . I was thinking maybe we could go out and get supper somewhere.  You got some other dresses when Regina worked with you?”

She nodded and sniffed.  “There was a pretty blue one, but it was kinda slutty. Regina had picked it out.”

He drew back, “Regina picked it out.  Well, that sounds like just the thing.  Why don’t you put that dress on . . . and some nice heels . . . and wash your face . . . and, maybe a little mascara and lipstick and  . . . I’ll get us reservations at Curate.  We’ll go out and have a good time.”

“Your reputation won’t be damaged by being seen with plain Miss French?” she asked him, wiping the remaining tears from her face.

“No, never,” he promised.  She got up and went on back to her room.  He heard water running and soon enough she came out wearing the slutty blue dress.

He sucked in air.  It was a slutty blue dress all right – tight, sparkly, quite revealing.  She wore it well.  She’d managed to run a comb through her hair and had stuck the unruly curls onto the top of her head so they fell in delightful abandonment around her face.  She’d cleaned up and, he knew it was for him, she’d put on the mascara and some raspberry lipstick she’d been given when she’d been made up for Cora’s soiree.  She’d found some black heels – _He hadn’t been aware she was able to walk in heels, much less owned a pair._   

“Well?” she asked, with one last sniff.

“ _Bellisima_ ,” he told her.  “You look great.  Come on, we’ll get a nice meal and give you some time off and we’ll talk about your future.”

He offered Belle his arm and the two descended the stairs and walked on up to the little restaurant on Broadway. 

“They know me here and I was able to get us a nice table,” Rumple told her. 

They were escorted to a small table in the back of the restaurant and placed their orders for several different kinds of tapas.  Rumple also ordered a bottle of red wine to go with their meal. 

“You’re embarrassing me,” Belle told him softly.  _Why was he being so nice to her?  Did he just feel that sorry for her?_

“Why?  What am I doing?” he asked.

“Staring at me.  Maybe I’m losing it, but I feel like everyone is staring at me.”

“They are.  You look amazing,” he told her. 

_Oh, she so wanted to believe him. But she knew she wasn’t all glamorous like Milah or even Zelena.  She was just Belle._

But it was the nicest, easily the most expensive, supper Belle had ever partaken of.  Plate after plate of food, followed by dessert, all with the occasional glass of fine wine.  She was enjoying herself and feeling less sorry for herself. 

“Going out with you is much better than wallowing in a carton of ice cream,” she told him well into the evening.

“High praise, indeed,” he replied.  Something had caught his eye.  “Damnation,” he swore under his breath.  “I didn’t think that scum would still be in town.”  Anger crossed his face.  “Belle, I apologize in advance, but I’m afraid your picture may end up on some websites and in some less savory publications.”

“What do you mean?” she looked around. 

“Someone’s been taking pictures of us while we’ve been eating and enjoying ourselves,” Rumple stood.  “And there he is.” He was looking a red-faced, pudgy man who was loitering near the bathroom.  He got up and propelled the man over to Belle. 

“Meet Smee, my least favorite free-lance reporter,” Rumple remarked to the Belle. 

“Hey, I wasn’t following you or anything,” the man replied.  “I was just in here and saw you with this woman I didn’t recognize.  You two dating?”

“We’re having a private dinner, Smee.  You’re not invited.”

“Oh, come on.  This is the finest piece I’ve ever seen you with.  She's the one who was with you at Mill’s big shindig, isn’t she?  Who is she?” Smee was ogling Belle who was beginning to feel very exposed and uncomfortable. 

“My dining companion.”  Rumple stood.  “Now, are you going to leave or do I need to call the manager . . . or the police . . . or an ambulance?”

“I’ll leave.  I’ll leave,” the man scampered out.

Rumple sat back down.  “Shit!” He rubbed his face.  “I never meant this to happen.”

“What’s happened?” Belle asked.

“There are a couple of less  -- professional – news, maybe I should say quasi-new organizations who keep tabs on me.  When I moved away from New York, I thought I had moved away from them, but they followed me.  They started back with me when I had the little affair with Cora Mills.  It was something that some segments of the population seemed to have some interest in.  Why I don’t know.  Famous artist and his affairs or some such.  They would sometimes follow me around and get pictures of me.  They especially seem to like to get pictures of me when I’m out with a woman.  Zelena thrived on it but  . . . well, I never wanted it, any of it.” 

“So, what will happen?” Belle asked.

“They usually get things out on their twitter accounts.  They have a number of people who follow them.  Sometimes, but I’m hoping this won’t happen, things will get picked up by reputable news organizations and you can open your search engine and find a picture of yourself looking back at you.”

“Oh dear,”

“Oh dear, is right, Miss French.  They will be speculating on exactly who you are and what our relationship is and assuming the worst, well, assuming that we’re  . . . that we’re lovers.”

“Oh dear,” Belle repeated herself.

Rumple sighed, “Let’s finish up our meal as best we can and forget about this bit of ugliness.”

Belle agreed and helped him finish off the bottle of wine.  He paid and escorted her back to his apartment.  Belle stood a moment in the front hall of his place. 

He looked her over and alarmed that she wasn’t saying anything, he spoke, “You all right?”

“I’m fine.  Thank you so much for taking care of me today,” she spoke shyly.  “I know I was an absolute mess earlier but now I feel . . . . I feel fine.”

“You look fantastic,’ he told her.  _She had never looked more beautiful to him, never more desirable._

_And Jefferson’s voice, his warning about not coming on to her, not sleeping with her was drowned out in the symphony of violins and cellos, singing, rising jubilantly, celebrating, rejoicing._

They stood facing each other in the darkened hall.  If she would only lift her head they would be within an inch of their lips touching.  He would just have to bend down a little . . .

She lifted her head.

He bent down.

Their lips touched. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things fall apart (a bit).  
> Regina makes a discovery.  
> Neal talks with Belle.


	13. Tidying Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things fall apart (a bit).  
> Regina makes a discovery.  
> Neal talks with Belle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Judging by the comments on both the fanfiction site and AO3, Belle’s meltdown struck a chord with a number of people – I hope the resolution felt right – I thought that starting a physical relationship under the circumstances would be a disaster – neither one of them are quite ready (but are getting there). -twyla

_After sharing proposal and wedding fantasies with her best friends, Belle is overcome with a sense that her life is going nowhere and has a quiet meltdown in Rumple’s apartment.  Finding the distraught young woman eating ice cream, watching an old movie, and crying on his sofa, Rumple calls his best friend for advice. Jefferson suggests he take her out for supper, listen sympathetically, but under no circumstances should he engage in any physical intimacies.   Belle and Rumple go out for a lovely dinner which is briefly interrupted by a sleazy photographer, but is otherwise pleasant and does perk up Belle.  Back at his apartment, both of them drunk, they lean in for a kiss._

It was feather-light at first, lips just barely grazing as if he wanted to be sure his attentions were welcome.  When she made no protest, he began pressing into her, his mouth fastening onto hers, nudging her lips open, tasting her. 

She was dizzy and knew she was clinging to him, kissing him back. 

_Belle was remembering Rumple’s expression when she had come through the door.  He had liked how she looked, no question.  His eyes had lite up and he had been stymied for words.  She was, after all, wearing the most slutty dress she’d ever worn.  And she looked good in it -- she knew she looked good.   And Rumple had been a wonderful, delightful companion for the rest of the evening and she had felt, oh, so special._

_She knew they shouldn’t kiss.  That it would be wrong, but she had never felt more aware of him as a man, an attractive, desirable man, than she was standing there in the hall with him._

_But she knew she wasn’t the type of woman he liked.  She’d seen the kind of women he dated, that he associated with – all very sophisticated, experienced in the ways of the world, elegant.  She was . . . she was just Belle.  She knew her friends would describe her as sweet, not sophisticated -- nice, not elegant._

_And besides, she knew that boinking your boss could never work out well._

_But . . ._

_She so wanted to kiss him, to kiss him back._

_And she was doing just that._

**The Morning After**

Belle stirred.  She felt warm and relaxed and . . . oh yes, so, so satisfied.

She felt someone wrapped around her, his legs over hers and his arm over her body.  She gently rolled over and . . .

“Oh no, oh no, oh no!”

What had she done?!  What had happened?!

“Oh god, oh god,” she pulled away from him.  She had awakened in bed with Rumple Stiltskin, her boss, the one man she didn’t want to wake up with. 

_She replayed the events of the previous evening.  She had been upset, then had drank too much wine, so she was drunk and he was drunk, a little drunk, not as drunk as she was, and he had pushed her against the door and he had kissed her and she had kissed him back.  And it was fantastic.  The man knew how to kiss, rendering all the other slobbering, sloppy kisses she’d ever gotten from any of her boyfriends as pale imitations of what a kiss should be.  His kisses had been slow and heated and seemed to pull her soul out of her, soothing her and worshiping her all at the same time._

_She didn’t remember, but at some point they had begun pulling off each other’s outerwear, both clumsy and frantic._

_And somehow they had gotten back to the bedroom and had fallen into his bed together and then . . . and then . . ._

_She didn’t remember._

 

“Whaaa?” the man stirred and opened one brown eye.  “What?”

“Did we . . . did we? I mean . . . what happened here? Did we sleep together?  What a disaster!  I can’t have spent the night with you! It’s too awful to contemplate!”

Rumple frowned and rolled onto his back, “Well, women have been known to survive,” he told her dryly.

“But . . . it’s all wrong. It’s the worst thing that could have happened between us,” she told him.  “You’re my boss and you’re . . .  you’re you and I’m me and oh no!  I can’t be sleeping with you.  With my dad, my money, well, right now my life is a big, fat dumpster fire.  And as far as relationships go, you’re a train wreck.  We can’t . . . I mean . . . there can’t be . . . shouldn’t be . . . it’s a disaster!” she wailed and plopped back down onto the pillow.

Rumple rolled onto his side, listening to her rant.  He gently laid his hand on the side of her face.  “Miss French, do you really think we shared a night of passion and then put all of our clothes back on?  Look!  We’re both fully clothed except for our shoes.  My pants are still fastened and, well, I mean, I’m not going to check, but you still have your knickers on, right?”

“What?”  Belle dropped her hand to her waist.  _Yes, she was still wearing the fancy cream lace thong that Regina had insisted she buy to wear under this dress.  She felt further up her body.  Still wearing her bra.  She was fully clothed – except for her shoes._ She looked down at Rumple.  He was still dressed in his suit pants, shirt and vest.  His tie had been loosened but was still around his neck.  He still wore his socks and, she glanced down, his pants were still fastened. 

“Nothing happened,” he assured her. “Well, we kissed and maybe if we hadn’t been so drunk, we would have done something, but we . . . we passed out drunk and . . . Miss French, nothing happened.” 

Belle sighed.   “Thank goodness,” she said and she rubbed her head.  “I guess I should fix us both my hangover cure.”

“Probably,” he agreed. But then, he laid his hand on her arm, “Miss French, if we had . . . if we hadn’t passed out and had . . .  gone ahead with things . . . would it really be so bad?”

Belle looked up at him.  “It’s not you, you know it’s not you.  It’s . . . it’s the whole thing.  I want to go to college and I can’t be in a relationship with anyone. Too complicated.  I can’t be with you.”

“Am I so objectionable?”

“Yes,” she answered without thinking but then immediately relented. “I mean, for me you are.  You’re my boss and I need, I really need this job and it would just make things so awkward if . . .”

“You became my mistress?” he finished deliberately. 

She glanced at him and nodded.

“But if I were just a neighbor that you’d gotten close to or someone you’d met in a coffee shop . . . it might be . . . all right . . . for us to . . .?

Belle’s eyes briefly connected with his again and very, very slightly, she nodded.

“How close are you to being ready to go on to the university?” he asked thoughtfully.

“I have some scholarship money and, probably, I could get a couple of student loans, but that won’t be enough for me to live on. It’s really helped that I don’t have to worry about my father’s medical expenses but it’s not enough -- yet.  I’ve been trying to save up enough money to live on – for a room at the university, the meal plan, and so on.  I’m getting close. I just need enough to make it a year, maybe just half a year.  I’m pretty close to getting my degree.”

“Well, I could raise your pay.  Or perhaps I could just lend it to you?” he asked suddenly.

“What?  Oh, I don’t know.”  _This type of arrangement would almost certainly have strings attached._

“We could work out something.  You could live here and commute and still keep my toilets clean,” he added. “That you save you some living expenses.”

“I. . . I don’t know.” The offer was tempting.  It would mean she’d be able to start right away in the mid-year semester, after the New Year, and not have to wait another year . . . or more.

“Hey, I’ve given more money to far less worthy causes – starting with my ex-wife’s lover.  Miss French, I want you to have your chance, your opportunity to go to school, get that better job.  Of course, you don’t belong scrubbing my toilets when you’re forty.”

“What kind of interest rate?” She was nothing if not canny.

“Point five,” he answered promptly. 

“Let me think about it?” she asked.

“Sure.”  He had rolled over so he was now looking down at her.  He traced his fingers down her arm.  “I remember kissing you last night.”

 _This was dangerous territory._  “Yes,” she answered and scrambled out of his bed and out of his bedroom.

“Oh, my dear, do you think for a moment that if I had gotten you out of your panties that I would have given them back to you?” he asked the now empty room. 

He laid back in his bed and stretched.  _She had been everything he had anticipated – sweet tinkling notes and the rich smells of vanilla and roses and colors all swirling white and gold with a hint of pink.  He remembered the kiss in the hallway and stripping off his jacket and the straggling back to his bedroom.  He remembered her running her hand up his thigh, letting the back of her hand brush against his very hardened member and hearing her whimper with need.  She had whispered, “please, please,” in his ear and he had been more than eager to comply with her demands.   He had planned to respond to her need, to give her what they both wanted, release and pleasure, but she had abruptly passed out._

_There had been a tiny moment of moral indecision, and now, finally, the thundering voice of his best friend prevailing over all the other music, the voice that had advised against this action.   He had reminded himself that he had never been the kind of man who wanted a woman who wasn’t a hundred percent willing and he certainly wanted anything, everything he could get with this woman to be aware and consensual and mutual.  He had groaned and laid himself down next to her.  If he couldn’t make love to her, then he could at least hold her, could at least touch her._

**Back to Routine**

The next day, things had returned to routine with just the slightest tenseness in the air between them.  Belle had laundry to take care of, the fridge to clean out, and floors to sweep and mop or vacuum.  She took her grocery list and went out for a few things later in the morning and wasn’t there when Regina swooped in about eleven.

“Have you seen them?” she demanded.

Rumple looked at his agent, consultant, financial advisor and whatever else Regina was to him with a blank stare.

“Them?” he questioned.

Regina pulled her phone out and handed it to him.

Sure enough there were pictures of himself and Belle at the restaurant, walking down the street together, one with him with his hand on her back as he escorted her _somewhere._ They all looked very cozy.

“After mother’s party, the rumor was that you were dating a university professor,” Regina told him.

“A university professor,” Rumple repeated. “Miss French would like that.”

“But where did all these come from?” Regina demanded.  “I had thought we’d seen the last of this type of blue press with the few that came out of my mother’s party, but these are different.  It’s a different dress she’s wearing – one I remember picking out.”

“Smee,” he answered shortly.

“Of course, Smee.  But what were you doing out with your maid?  That is her, isn’t it?  I barely recognize her.”

“That’s her.  She had gotten in a funk.  I got her to put on the dress and . . . and I took her out for supper.  That was all there was to it.”

“Well, according to the chatter, you two were seen in an ‘intimate setting, laughing and sharing, for several hours.’  They want to know who this new lady in the life of one of the premiere artists of our time is.”

“They’re still calling me a ‘premiere artist’?” he asked.  “Ignore them.  It will blow over.  And it means nothing.  I’d already warned Miss French that she might have her face plastered about on some media channels.  She’s okay with it.”

Regina sighed and sat down.  “Rum, you understand that I just don’t want you to start down that negative publicity path again.  It nearly undid you last time,” she reminded him softly.  “I was hoping they’d forgotten about you.”

“Me too,” he confessed. 

Regina sat quietly, looking at him.  _He did look better since the little maid had come into his life.  His apartment was clean, hell, he was clean – and not just body clean, but his mind was clearer, less befuddled by drugs and alcohol.  She’d been good for him._

Out of curiosity, she began, “I know you.  You’re always sketching. Have you done any pictures of her?”

He shrugged, dismissing Regina.  “Maybe a few.  I think I’ve stuck most of them in one of my studio drawers.” He led Regina into his studio.  It was not nearly as tidy as the rest of the apartment.

“Why hasn’t she done a better job keeping this room clean?” she asked him.

“She’s not allowed in here,” Rumple told her.  “It was part of our initial deal that this was to be a respected place and she couldn’t come in here, well, unless I invited her.”

“Why not?  It’s not like you ever empty the trash.”

“It was just a thing I had with her at the time.” He was rummaging back in one drawer, then tried another and then a third.  At the fourth place, he began to pull out some of his sketches. 

Regina nearly gasped.  There were perhaps fifty, possibly more, of the little sketches, mostly pencil, some inked, some charcoal, some pastel.  All captured Belle doing little homey tasks – reading, mixing up something in a bowl, looking over a flower, simple things.

But they were all amazing – superior examples of his work, even the little pencil etchings were astonishing.  He had captured _something_ , that thing that made him an artist as opposed to the rest of people who merely reproduced what they saw. 

Regina slowly went through them. She picked up one of Belle sleeping and nearly gasped.  It was astonishing.  “Is this all?”

“Oh, hardly.  They’re all around here in different places,” he again waved her off.

“These are the best things you produced in . . . decades,” Regina told him.  “Why isn’t she modeling for you?”

“Because she’s my maid,” he answered shortly.

“She’s wasted as your maid . . . ” Regina began.

“Hardly.  You’ve seen what she’s done in the rest of my apartment.”  He seemed determined to be difficult.

“She should be your model.  I’d like to gather these up, get them framed and do a little showing,” she told him.

“No, no,” he reached for his work.  “I’m not  . . . “ _not what? Ready to share?_   “I don’t know how Miss French would feel about a showing. We’d have to check with her first.”

“Well, where is she?” Regina always was someone who didn’t the grass grow under her feet.  “I’ll talk with her today.”

“She’s gone, uh, out, uh, grocery shopping, I think.  I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

Regina frowned at him.  “I’d wait for her but I have another appointment.  Will you ask her about showing your pictures of her?”

“Sure, yeah, I’ll run it by her,” he told Regina.

Regina stood and turned to go.  She stopped at the door.  “I won’t let this drop, you know.  This is some of your best work.  It’s what people want to see from you.”

“All right,” he answered neutrally.

**Another Phone Call**

It had been a week.  Things had remained awkward between them.  They both felt it, but neither one said a word.  They avoided each other when they could.  They spoke formally together, exchanged necessary pleasantries, but they did not converse.  They did not engage.

He had gone out, mentioning that it was something Regina was having him work on when The Phone Call came in. 

“Mr. Stiltskin’s residence,” Belle answered.

“Hey, this is Neal.  Is my dad there?”  Belle had had a few brief conversations with Rumple’s son, usually just to confirm with him that his father was available. 

“Hello Neal.  Mr. Stiltskin is out for the moment.”

There was a short silence.  “Well, it wasn’t anything important.  Do you know when he’ll be back in?”

“No, sir,” Belle answered.  “He just said he was going to meet with Miss Mills.  May I give you her number?”

“Nah.  He’s got his cellphone turned off so I’m guessing he doesn’t want to be interrupted.”

_Well that or the man forgot to charge it or left it in the apartment or some combination of the above, Belle thought._

“Hey,” Neal continued.  “Are you his new maid?  I’d heard he’d hired someone. You’re always so pleasant to talk with, I would like to know . . . you.”

“I’m Belle French.  Your father has employed me as his maid, cook, general caretaker.”

“Oh.  So, nice to talk with you, Miss French.”  There was another pause.  “I have the feeling that you are taking very good care of my father.  Thank you.  He rather needs someone looking after him.”

 _What could she say?_ “He often loses track of everyday essentials,” she hedged her answer.  “Your father is a genius, you know.”

“Yes and he means well, but he can be a bit of arse,” Neal confirmed.  “Listen, since you’ve become a big part of my dad’s life, I’d really like to meet you.”

“Coffee somewhere?” Belle suggested.

“Sure.  Three o’clock this afternoon at Bell, Book and Candle?” Neal named the little coffee/bookstore on Broadway.

“I can be there,” Belle told him.

 

She sat at a corner table in the little coffee shop section of the alternative bookstore.  She was a regular there, but usually came in for books, not coffee.  She had no idea what Neal looked like but, as prearranged, she was wearing pink and looking for a man wearing a blue sweater vest.  She spotted him as soon as he walked in – a dark-haired man who favored his mother, Milah. 

“Miss French,” he offered his hand.

“Call me Belle, please,” she told him shaking his hand.

“I go by Neal Cassidy.”

“Cassidy?” she had to ask.

“My maternal grandmother’s maiden name.  Stiltskin is a name with a lot of baggage that I didn’t want to have to carry around,” he answered.

Belle understood this.  Neal asked her if she had ordered and when she told him she had not, he suggested she make a selection and then he put an order in for both of them.  He sat back down with her while they waited for their coffee.

“How did you get involved with my dad?” Neal asked her.

“My father couldn’t pay his rent and your father made us an alternate deal.”

“Nothing perverted or kinky, please tell me,” Neal entreated.

“Not at all.  He just wanted me to help keep his place clean.”

“I’m surprised.  He usually avoids having people around him and to hire you as a live-in maid . . .”

“Well, he was pretty drunk at the time,” Belle explained.

“Ah, now that would make sense.”  Their coffee came and they both took sips.  “Miss French . . . Belle . . . he seems to be doing much better since you’ve been around.  He’s getting to appointments, completing commissions, certainly, he’s drinking less.”

“I’m just trying to keep things tidied up.”

“Well, you have gone a ways towards tidying up his life.  I guess I wanted to meet you to thank you.  Those of us who care about him, well, we’ve been concerned that he’d was drinking himself into an early grave.”

Belle nodded.  She remembered the man she had first come to work for.  He could barely put together three words for more than a few hours during the day.  The rest of the time he was drunk or passed out. 

“Your phone calls are something he looks forward to, you know that,” Belle told Neal.

“Yeah.  I’m getting more comfortable with talking with him.  Things haven’t always been good between us but, well, after some things came together in my life, I decided to make a move to reconcile with him.  Don’t know that we’re best buds or anything like that, but we are civil to each other.”

“What do you do a living, if I’m not being too personal?” Belle asked.

“Very ordinary stuff.  I’m a financial planner.”

“Really? One my friends is dating a financial planner.  I wonder if you know him.”

“Who’s the planner?” Neal asked.

“You know, Emma’s never mentioned his name.”

“Emma?  Emma Swan?” asked Neal.

“You know Emma?” Belle asked.

Neal sat back and slowly grinned.  “I think I may be the financial planner.   I met Emma when that crappy VW of hers had blown a gasket and I did a roadside rescue.  We hit it off right away and we’ve been seeing each other ever since.”

“Wow, small world,” Belle said. 

The two chit-chatted for a bit longer, finished their coffee and parted ways.  Belle promised that she would continue to look after Mr. Stiltskin and Neal promised he would continue to call his father regularly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belle begins to face her feelings about Rumple.  
> She warily agrees to a modeling session with him.


	14. Enraptured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle begins to face her feelings about Rumple.   
> She warily agrees to a modeling session with him.

_Belle and Rumple awaken in bed together but are completely clothed and realize that nothing beyond several deeply heated kisses happened between them. Rumple offers to fund Belle’s last year of college (an offer she will think about). Regina shares with Rumple that some mildly salacious pictures of Rumple and Belle that have surfaced on the Internet. She also discovers some of his drawings of Belle and wants to have a gallery show. Belle answers the phone and it’s Rumple’s son Neal, who wants to meet with her (to thank her for taking care of his father). They discover they have a mutual friend in Emma Swan, one of Belle’s best friends and Neal’s girlfriend._

It was again Friday night and Belle let him know she was going out with her friends.

“This isn’t going to result in another Ice Cream Episode, is it?” he asked warily.

“No,” she smiled at him. “I don’t get down very often.  I guess I was just feeling sorry for myself, but I think . . . I’m sure . . . I’m doing better now.”

“So where are you going, so I don’t run into you?”

“Where we usually go – The Green Dragon,” she told him.

“I solemnly swear, I will not go The Green Dragon bar tonight,” he raised his right hand while he made his pledge. “Have fun with your friends.”

She hesitated. “What are you going to do?”

He looked over at her. “Anything on my social calendar?”

“No sir, but Regina wanted you to give her a call,” she told him. 

_She just wants to know if I talked with you about showing the pictures I’ve done of you._ “Then I guess I will call her and if it’s not anything, I may connect with Jefferson or, maybe just stay here. I’ve learned recently that I don’t have to go out and get drunk every single night.”

Belle smiled at him, a beaming, genuine smile. “No sir. You don’t.”

“Maybe I’ll stay here and do a little work. I’ve got this idea for some music.”

“Music? You used to write a lot of music, didn’t you?”

“I still have it all in my head but I haven’t gotten any of it written down in a while. Maybe I’ll work on that.”

_He didn’t tell her that since she’d come into his life, he’d gotten a myriad of ideas for music – most of them about love and smaltzy stuff, not his usual acerbic style at all. He’d been writing some of them down, but they weren’t quite going anywhere. When she was in the room, there was always a tune in his head, different ones depending on what she was doing, what she was wearing, if she smiled at him, if she breathed the same air that he breathed._

“Well, don’t work too hard,” Belle told him as she went out the door. 

_He had gotten better, she thought. He was still intruding into her life, but most recently, his efforts had worked out well for her. She still wasn’t comfortable sharing him with her friends. He was still – too much._

_Oh, but now he was making guest appearances in her dreams. That kiss the other evening kept replaying in her head and remembering that moment she woke up and they were cuddled together and it was warm and sweet and, now, in her dreams, it would dissolve into him rolling on top of her and kissing her and removing her clothing and touching her and, more than once, she had awakened with the most delicious orgasm washing over her._

_Well, damn._

**Early**

She had called Ruby to connect with her before their other friends showed up. She wanted to talk something over with her very best friend.

“’Sup?” Ruby had asked, sliding into the barstool next to her, signaling for her usual.

“I’ve got to talk to someone,” Belle began. She looked over at her best friend who was struggling to contain herself. “I’m in trouble.”

“Mr. Stiltskin?” Ruby asked, soberly.

“You’re good. Yes.”

“Well, he’s rich enough to take care of you and he seems like he’d be a stand-up guy. You know you can count on your friends.”

The bartender brought over two beers for the women.

Ruby reached over and pulled away Belle’s beer. “Oh darling, you know you shouldn’t be drinking.”

Belle paused and then laughed, suddenly realizing how she had misled Ruby. “Oh no. It’s not that kind of trouble. I’m just confused and . . .  I don’t know what to do.” She retrieved her beer.

“All right,” Ruby looked relieved. “So, you’re not pregnant. For a moment there . . . I thought I’d lost my super power – the one where I can tell if people are doing the nasty. So, that is good news . . . all right . . . so . . . Stiltskin, huh? What’s the bastard done?”

“Nothing. He’s been wonderful and that’s the problem. It was so much easier when he was a drunken reprobate, but he’s been so supportive with all this stuff with my dad. I . . .” she struggled to finish.

“You are falling for him,” Ruby quickly surmised. “So, what’s the problem, Belles? Jump him in the shower. It’s not like he can run faster than you can.”

Belle just looked at her best friend. “I . . . I . . .”

“Belle, for Pete’s sake, you’re a grown-up woman. You really like this guy and he seems to really like you. So why not have some fun? If something bigger and better comes out of it, that’s great. If not, well, at least you had fun.”

“That doesn’t seem kinda . . . cheap to you?” Belle asked in a small voice.

“It seems kinda like taking life and all that it can offer instead of sitting on the sidelines watching it go by.” Ruby got serious. “Belle, Archie is like totally different from anyone else I have ever dated. If I hadn’t taken a chance and jumped into the deep end of the pool, I don’t know that I would have ever really gotten to know him and . . . well, he’s been the best thing, besides you, that’s ever happened to me.”

“What if I find out that he’s just using me . . .  you know, for sex?”

Ruby took a big swig of her beer. “He strikes me at the kind of man that’s gonna make it pretty good for you. Older guy – experience – multiple orgasms – maybe you’d be the one using him . . . you know, for sex.”

Belle had to smile. Her best friend was incorrigible . . . but probably right. They were finishing up their beers when Mary Margaret and Emma came in.   

“I really want to try the new bar, Pieces,” Emma told them all.

“But . . .” Belle began. 

“That sounds great,” Ruby spoke up. “I’ve been wanting to go there.” And the gaggle of young women set off.  _Belle considered calling Rumple, to let him know the change of plans. but thought, what are the odds? She doubted he would leave the apartment tonight._

_So, she didn’t._

Mary Margaret had brought her new friends Ariel and Ashley and introduced them to the group. After catching up all around, Ruby turned to Belle, “You have got to tell them about your job and your hot boss,” she told her. Ruby announced to the new girls, “Her boss is Rumson Stiltskin.”

The other women gushed. “What’s he like?” “That’s got to be interesting work.” “Is he as hot in person?”

“My job is boring. It’s cleaning toilets and vacuuming and cooking the occasional meal – not exciting. And my boss is not hot,” Belle tried to get them onto another topic.

“Are you kidding?” Ariel spoke up. “I’ve seen pictures. The guy is sooo hot.”

“Testify,” Ruby was in complete agreement. “I got to see him, close up and in person. The guy is a volcano, just oozing hotness.”

“Well, maybe familiarity breeds blasé-ness,” Belle told them. “He’s not so hot when you get to know him.”

“No, no,” Mary Margaret disagreed. “We’ve got to know. Has he made any moves on you?”

_Beyond a hot kiss in the hallway?_ “No, the man lives like a monk,” Belle glanced at Ruby and then explained to her friends. “I don’t care what his reputation is, he rarely brings women to the apartment.”

“Really?” Ashley was disappointed.

“Isn’t that him?” Emma asked slowly. She was looking over Belle’s shoulder.

“What?!” Belle had a sinking feeling. She glanced around and . . . yes, there he was.  He was dressed nicely, really nicely – one of his suits with a dark silk shirt.  No vest, no tie . . . and the shirt was open at the neck.  _Crap, one of his nicer looks._

_What should she do?  She had told him she would be somewhere else. She really couldn’t get angry at him from showing up in a public place. But what were the odds?_

“Mr. Stiltskin! Mr. Stiltskin!” Ruby had stood up and was waving at him, actually summoning the guy over to them. He looked over at the group of young women, puzzled. “We’re here with Belle,” Ruby was pointing to her friend. “Come join us,” she invited him over.

He hesitated. He had promised Miss French that he wouldn’t intrude . . . but he didn’t want to be rude to her friends. 

He went over to the group. 

“You’ve got to sit with us,” Ruby told him, laying a hand on his arm. He glanced at Belle who gave him a weak smile.

“For just a moment,” he said, catching Belle’s eye and shrugging. “Ladies, can I buy you a round?”

“You betcha.” “Shore ‘nuff.” “No problem.” “Absolutely.”  came the replies.

“Belle’s been telling us what a nice guy you are,” Ariel began. 

He glanced at Belle.  “Miss French is being very kind,” he replied. “I’m often quite difficult to be around. She is a saint for putting up with me.”

“Have you done any drawings of her?” Emma asked.

“I have.  A few.” And he began to make some sketches on a bar napkin. 

“Are you seeing anyone special now?” Mary Margaret boldly asked him.

“If you ask me, no. But there are some women who would answer that differently,” he replied honestly. 

“Are you ever going to write any more music?  _Lost in Oz_ and _The Price of Magic_ have some of my most favorite songs in them,” Ariel told him referring to his older Broadway successes.

“I have some ideas in mind, but nothing concrete,” he told her. He looked around. “I’ve met Miss Ruby. You others must tell me who you are.” And he smiled at the group and they all just giggled like middle school girls. Belle was thoroughly disgusted with her friends. Her sophisticated, experienced, involved-with-other-guys, urbane friends were all just melting for the man.

Mary Margaret led things off, then Ariel and then Ashley, each of them telling him their names and their day jobs.   The group was surprised when Emma, solid, pragmatic Emma who worked for the sheriff’s department as a deputy, revealed that she was a wanna-be artist.

She blushed when this came out. “Well, it’s really personal and I just never have shared.  But I was told I was pretty good in high school and in a couple of college classes I took. I just didn’t think I could make a living with my art.”

“It is a leap of faith,” Rumple agreed with her. “Why don’t you bring me some of your work. I’ll take a look at it,” he encouraged her. And Emma, hard-nosed, Miss Self-Sufficient Emma gushed.  _She actually gushed._

_Belle suspected that Neal had not yet told Emma about his connection with Mr. Stiltskin and she wasn’t going to be the one to spill the beans. It was odd, sitting in the group, knowing there was this important connection between her employer and her friend._

He kept her friends laughing and ended up giving them each a quick drawing of themselves – on bar napkins to be sure, but nonetheless, a signed and dated work. 

It was probably the longest time she’d ever been around the man that he wasn’t a jerk at any point. He was gracious, friendly, a thorough gentleman.  _Belle couldn’t figure out why she was feeling so much anger. It couldn’t be that she didn’t want to share him – that would mean she was jealous and if she was jealous that would be further confirmation that she had real feelings for him._

At the end of the evening, Rumple graciously offered to take them all home but they had rides except for Belle, so he ended up walking her back to his place.

“I didn’t intrude,” he told her. “When I called Regina, she asked me to address the Arts Commission and she was mean and made me put on a suit. I did stay away from The Green Dragon as I promised.”

“You’re right,” Belle had to admit. “Our plans were changed at the last moment.”

“And I was on my best behavior, my most charming and delightful,” he told her.

She sighed. “You were. And all my friends think you’re marvelous.”

“Would they sleep with me?” he asked, grinning at her.

“A year ago, they all would have,” Belle told him. “But now, they’re all involved.”

“But a year ago . . .?” he prompted.

“You would have been fair game. They’re all kinda slutty.”

“That’s nice to know,” he assured her.

Belle stopped and turned to him. “Please tell me, you’re not going to try to hook up with any of my friends.”

“That could get awkward – and I wasn’t trying to hook up with the pretty blonde – I really am willing to look over her art work,” he told her, recognizing that she really didn’t want him intruding any more into her personal life than he already had. 

“Emma,” she told him her pretty, blonde friend’s name. “And you should definitely not be trying to hook up with her,” she told him sternly.

He caught something, but wasn’t sure what it was. “Why is that?  Does she have a disease? A scary boyfriend? Tons of unpaid debt?”

Belle bit her lip – _it wasn’t her place to share._ “She’s a wonderful person, but relationships have been hard for her. She’s in one right now that seems to be working and I wouldn’t want to do anything that would mess it up.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior then,” he promised. They walked a little longer in quiet before Rumple shared, “Your friends are nice. You’re lucky to have them.”

She thought a moment, “I am. I really am. They’ve been like a second family to me . . . after my mother died and my dad began to have some problems. They’ve been there for me.”

They were almost back to his apartment when she asked, “I saw you drawing on the napkins. Did you do a picture of the group?”

“I did.  Just an ink drawing.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out the art piece.

Belle looked at it in the light from one of the streetlamps. She looked up at him. “This is amazing. You are so incredibly gifted. This captures not just how they look, but who they are.”

Up the stairs, they stepped into the dark apartment and Rumple turned to her.  “Miss French, you know I’d been in a slump as an artist. Most of what I’d been producing is nice but not inspired. But I’ve done a series of little pictures of you which I think may be some of the best things I’ve produced. You somehow . . . you inspire me. You make me a better . . .  artist.” He placed his hand on her arm.

“I don’t know what to say.” She didn’t move.

His voice was quiet and low and slow, almost a whisper. “Say, you’ll pose for me. Say you’ll let me do a series of pictures with you in them, different places, doing different things. Please,” he asked her, leaning in closer, closer.

She felt enveloped by his presence, almost suffocated. He was taking the air out of the room and she was beginning to feel as if she was under a spell, dizzy, with no will of her own. _She hadn’t expected this._

_And now, now that she was beginning to recognize that she was well and truly attracted to man, she had little choice but to acknowledge there was real desire, not just a passing fancy, between them. She was torn, wanting to comply, to please him and, yet, wanting to save herself from a romance that had nowhere to go._   

“I . . . I . . . how can I be your maid and pose . . . ?” she stammered.

“We’ll work something out,” he moved in just a little more. “Modeling pays more than maiding. I know you want to finish up college and I offered you a loan, but I know you – you’d rather be able to pay your own way without my help.” He was standing too closely, in her space, she could feel the heat from his body.

“Well yeah, you know I do. I’m working on it but . . . “ she didn’t finish.  _This was unexpected. This was confusing._

“Then, agree to pose for me. My mother is taking care of your father’s expenses. That loan offer is still on the table. But modeling could really help you out with the college finances.”

“I don’t know.”

“We would have until the end of the year and we can work out something so you can go off after the new year to wherever you want to go.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” he promised her.

Belle considered. She blinked against the darkness, just able to make out his face in dim light coming in from the street into the apartment.  “Would you . . . would you want to do . . . ones like the one you’re doing with Miss DeVries?”

“A nude?’ he asked. “You’d have to tell me if you were comfortable doing that,” he gave her a gentle smile. “I’m perfectly fine with you remaining attired.”

She considered some more. “All right.” _And so, that had line had much easier to cross than she’d thought it would be._

“Really?” He seemed surprised.

“Yes. Let’s do it.”

“Then . . . let’s begin now,” he led her into his studio, flipped on the lights and set her on the sofa. 

“What should I do? I’m not a model. I don’t know how to pose or what to do.”

“I’ll help you. Take your hair down,” he directed her. 

She complied, running her fingers through her waves and unruly curls.

“Here,” he poured them two glasses of whiskey. He kept one for himself and handed one to her.

She looked up at him. “Do you want me to drink this?”

“A little -- it will help you relax.” 

She sipped some of the potent alcohol. 

“Now,” he said, “take off your little jacket, so you’re just in your pretty party dress.”

She followed his directions, setting the drink down and slipping out of her jacket. She shivered in the skimpy sundress with its little spaghetti straps. She hadn’t bothered with a bra and was suddenly very aware that there was only a thin layer of cotton separating her bosom from his soft sight. 

“Here,” he handed her a pamphlet took her drink from her. He then dipped his finger in his own drink and gently brushed his finger across her lips, wetting them. “Act like you’re reading it, intently reading it. It’s the most bloody interesting thing you’ve ever read. Now drop your shoes off, pull one leg up under yourself.” He smiled as she complied with all his instructions. He took her drink from her and set it aside. “Now, pull your skirt up a bit so we can see your lovely leg there and . . . and lean forward.”

Belle followed all his instructions and he began work. 

_It was an amazingly erotic experience. Her lips were still tingling from his touch and the potent alcohol. As he painted her, Belle could feel the man’s eyes on her. It was as if he was running his fingertips over her, touching her, caressing her. He would look at her and then work on the canvas and then look back at her again. Slowly, carefully, he worked his way around her body. He seemed dispassionate, but she found that she was breathing shallowly, feeling, feeling, feeling interested . . . feeling aroused. His eyes were bright, infused with the energies of his genius, his talent. He had captured her and was now embracing her very soul. The longer he worked, the more she felt as if she was enraptured, consumed and devoured by his magic._

It was after two in the morning before he allowed her to get up and come around to see the piece. She was trembling when she stood and took a moment to get her balance. She walked around to look at the canvas.

“My god!” she said reverently. 

“Pretty good, huh?” he asked her. 

“It doesn’t even look like me.”

“It’s what I see when I look at you,” he told her.

Belle realized she was holding her breath.  He had managed to paint an ethereal version of her best self – a young woman absorbed in her reading 

“I’ve got some other ideas of how I’d like to paint you,” he told her, infused with creative energies. “Tomorrow, I’d like to paint you down in the city, perhaps at a coffee shop or in a book store. And I’d like to get you on the overlook to the French Broad.  And, I think, in the botanical gardens and perhaps, well, there are some places along the Blue Ridge that I think would make splendid backdrops. I want to paint you in the sunshine, in the rain, in the morning, the evening. I have so many ideas.”

“Lovely, I’m sure they’re all lovely, but . . .” Belle looked out the window of his studio.  “It’s very late. I’m not used to being up past midnight.”

“Oh, you need to rest,” he suddenly realized. “Of course. Tomorrow we can begin again.” And he reached for her, pulling her to him and kissing her on the mouth. It was a short, hard kiss and he released her as soon as it was over.

Both of them stood stunned. The kiss had been spontaneous, not romantic, but it was more than simple affection. 

“Miss French,” he said and he slowly placed his hand on her cheek. “I’d like to kiss you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The heat builds (all right, the next chapter degrades into mostly smut -- including some inappropriate use of an artist's brush).


	15. On Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heat builds (all right, this chapter degrades into mostly smut – including some inappropriate use of an artist’s brush).

_Belle and Rumple are speaking but things are still formal between them. Belle is beginning to realize she has feelings for the man and her best friend has counseled her to act on them (life is short). Rumple inadvertently interrupts Girls Night Out and is gracious and pleasant, inexplicably making Belle feel jealous (and she realizes that she does have feelings and doesn’t want to share him). He asks her to model for him and she agrees. She finds the experience an erotic, arousing one. After working through the night, he shows her what he has done and she is stunned by the ethereal quality of his work. He kisses her in a moment of jubilance and then . . ._

“Miss French,” he said and he slowly placed his hand on her cheek, “I’d like to kiss you again.”

“All right,” she answered him breathlessly. _Kissing sounded like a good idea._

This time he put both of his hands on her face, tilting her chin up so that he could drop his lips onto hers. This time the kiss was slower and more, much more, persistent, his lips hard against her soft ones. This time, she was caught up in the heated exchange and opened her mouth to his. This time, she surrendered herself to him. Belle reached up to put her hands on his arms to steady herself, clenching her fingers onto the smooth material of his shirt. She stood on her toes to make better contact with the man, leaning into him. 

It was Rumple who finally broke off the kiss. Belle made a small sound of protest and rested her head on his chest. 

“I think . . . I think, I need to send you off to your own bedroom,” he told her slowly. “As tempting as you are, I don’t think we need to go any further.”

“No?” she asked him, relishing the solid comfort he was providing her as she absorbed the warmth of his body into her own.

“You’re very tired and I’m very focused on my painting. If I’m going to seduce you, I need to do it in the light of day when you’re completely alert and I’m not giddy with inspiration.”

“Really?” she sounded disappointed.

He had to chuckle. “Really,” he confirmed. “Come along now,” and he resolutely turned her around and ushered out of the studio and along the hall to her bedroom. He shoved her inside and shut the door after her. 

He took a couple of deep breaths in the hallway. _Having an affair with one’s model, while the publicly assumed norm, was not one that had ever worked out well for him.  He really wanted this one to go right, he wanted her to be sure, not drunk, not over-tired, not desperate, but really, really sure that she wanted him._

**Posing**

The days began to blur together. She posed for him five or more hours a day, often into the night. She continued to try to do her usual cleaning chores, keep his calendar, cook for him, and everything else she had been doing for the man, but quickly the demands of posing for him, especially when he wanted to go off site, out into the city, off into the mountains, began to drain her. 

This had been going on for days. He seemed to be on fire, the work he was producing was amazing, even to her untrained eye. He was creating piece after piece of the most incredible artwork, works of genius, works for the ages. 

She was sitting in his studio, getting ready to pose when she began to unbutton her cream colored sleeveless over-dress. She was wearing several layers of petticoats, mauve and brown under the over-dress, everything worn over a white lacy under-slip.

He stopped and watched. She was revealing more skin than she typically was comfortable sharing. At the moment, when he could capture the shadow of her cleavage, she stopped and remained still. She looked like a woman who was just beginning to disrobe for her lover. 

He captured it all. 

And the next day she slipped off her green overdress with a tiny flowered print so that all she was wearing was a beige slip dress. It was thin material and lovely details of her body were visible through the delicate material. Under his scrutiny, his steady, intense inspection, she had responded, unwittingly, without initial awareness, her body had responded, her nipples growing hard and engorging, standing out, straining against the sheer cotton fabric of her slip. Her eyes had begun to shine and, if he had been so confident as to check, she had dampened the cotton panties she wore. 

Posing for the man had become a sexual experience. Without being touched, she was touched. Without being caressed, she was caressed. His glance was palpable -- his gaze, like the touch of his hand. His close vision, examining her as he painted her, was as if his arms were wrapped around her. 

This painting was more sensual than any other he had yet to produce – her state of arousal apparent – she appeared to be a woman waiting for her man, waiting, anticipating.

And then, the next day, Belle slowly removed her slip for him. 

For the first time, since she had begun posing for him, he went over to her. “Here,” he told her and he covered his couch with a creamy velvet throw. He placed her on it, laying her down on the soft cover.  He fussed with her hair, spreading it out away from her head and then he pulled her arm up so that it went above her head as she lay back on the curved sofa. 

She couldn’t quite meet his eyes. _However had Miss Deville managed this?_ She lay still enjoying the slow sense of having a man make love to her, but all the while being untouched.

 

“This is going to take a bit longer,” he told her after an hour. “The skin tones become very critical.”

Belle didn’t answer. She hadn’t quite reached the state of total nudity, but she was rapidly capitulating, about to give in to the allure of having the man paint her in the altogether. 

He came over to the couch where she was lying. “Here,” he handed her some water.

Belle discreetly pulled the velvet throw up to cover herself.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever painted, you know that,” he remarked sipping from his own glass. 

She shook her head. 

“It’s an amazing experience,” she admitted. “I feel like you’re touching me when you’re painting me.”

He tilted his head while he considered this, “Does it?” he asked.

She nodded and dropped her eyes. 

“When I paint a woman, I feel like I’m making love to her. I dwell on each part of her body, like an attentive lover might.” 

He was sitting close to her and very, very gently, he leaned in. She raised her face to him and there was a kiss, a soft, quiet kiss. His hands went to her shoulders and he pressed her down onto the sofa where she had been reclining. Her own hands went around him and she welcomed him into her embrace. And they were still kissing. 

“Belle,” he whispered. 

“Yes,” she managed to answer.

“I don’t know that we should go any further,” he was still kissing her, dropping his mouth to her neck and shoulders. 

“No,” she whispered breathlessly. “We probably shouldn’t,” she agreed. She was kissing him back, her lips pressed to the hollow of his neck, her fingers unfastening the buttons of his linen shirt. He shrugged out of his shirt and pressed her completely flat onto the sofa. He began kissing down her body, slowly pulling the cover from her, revealing her pert little body. 

Belle was wearing only her panties and when she felt his hands tugging on these, she lifted her body to allow him to remove them. She was frantically trying to unfasten the tie on the loose linen pants that he was wearing, but the darn thing had knotted and she wasn’t able to finish undressing the man. He stopped his administrations and forcefully tugged on the knot, breaking the cording and dropping his pants. Belle immediately reached for him, clasping his hardness through his boxers, rubbing her palm against him and finally wrapping her fingers around him. She relished being able to touch him, feeling his strength, his hardness – all for her. 

She was very satisfied when she heard him moan. 

“Oh lord, Belle. I can’t take much from you right now.”

“Please,” she asked him but he wasn’t quite sure what she was asking for. “You, I want you . . . now . . . inside me, please.”

Now he knew what she wanted _he wanted it too_. He dropped his boxers and stopped suddenly. “A condom. I need a condom.” He reached back to his pants lying on the floor. No pockets, no condoms. “Don’t go away,” he told her and made his way quickly, using the furniture as supports, over to one of the chests of drawers that were in the room. He began to frantically open drawers. Papers came frothing up as he desperately searched for a little foil packet. Finally, he opened one drawer and, in a corner, he located what he was searching for. He grabbed a handful and sprang back over to the lounger. He took a couple of deep breaths. 

He put his hands on her face and kissed her gently on the mouth. “Belle,” he traced his finger over her mouth, “Are you sure?” he asked. 

“I’m sure,” she told him.

“Then . . .” he stopped holding her face in his hands. “You should know . . . and you don’t have to say anything back to me . . . you should know . . . I’d prefer you not say anything at the moment . . . .” He stopped. “I’m in love with you. My feelings for you are different than I’ve ever felt, but I know what they are. I love you.”

“Oh, Rumple,” she told him, stunned.

“I’m so glad you’re ready. I’m very ready,” he said in a rush. He pushed her down onto the lounger and positioned himself on top of her. Then he stopped. “Wait, I should probably do more foreplay.”

Belle nearly laughed. “I think we’ve been doing foreplay for several weeks, maybe months, now. I’m quite ready,” she reassured him.

“Oh good,” he dropped a hand and made sure he was lined up and then slowly began to push into her. She was wet and soft and snug and he was afraid he would black out before he got the job finished. She wiggled trying to make herself comfortable.

“You have done this before, right?” he asked, suddenly aware that the fit was very tight and concern bubbling up that he was, that he might be, he could possibly be her first.

“Uh huh, but it never went very well,” she told him. “It was over too quickly and it kinda hurt. You feel good though. Please, keep going,” she asked nicely.

He bit his lip and braced himself. He was not going to survive this. It was taking some effort not to just drive into her. She was so inviting and hot and there were moments when he wasn’t sure he would fit. He did manage to keep thrusting, to keep pushing and there was an ecstatic moment that he realized he was full hilt in. 

And Belle was writhing and he heard her call out his name and felt her tremble and shake and her deep inner muscles began to massage him and he couldn’t take anymore and this time it was his turn and he shouted her name as he emptied himself. 

They clung to each other, both breathing heavily. Both had shut their eyes and were just now starting to blink them open slowly.

“That was incredible,” Belle whispered.

“But it didn’t last very long,” he groused. “I usually have a little more control.”

She was smiling at him. “It was still the best I’ve ever had.”

_Well, that made him feel better._ Then another thought occurred to him, “You aren’t just saying that to make the old guy feel better, are you?” he asked.

Belle’s open face registered that she realized that he thought she might be leading him on. “Of course not!” she protested.  “I told you that it had never been very good for me. I’ve never come during sex before, and I  . . . well, almost right away.”

“But just the one time, huh?” he asked. _He could do better for her than that._

_He could absolutely do better than that._

He removed his condom and used one of his clean brush cloths to wipe himself off.  Belle started to get up when he stopped her. “Just lay back. I think I can offer you a bit more.”

“But you’re going to need a little while . . .?” Belle was confused.

“For PIV sex, yeah. But there are other things I can do for you. Lie back,” he directed.  “Good lord, you are incredibly beautiful.” _It might not take him as long to get ready again as he might have thought._ He traced his hands down her body, splaying his fingers out along her hips. Gently he dropped his hands between her thighs and pulled them apart. Belle shook her head, obviously embarrassed. 

“Hey, I’m going to take care of you. Trust me?” he asked.

She swallowed and nodded. She felt his hands on her inner thighs again, high on her inner thighs and closed her eyes. 

“That’s a good girl,” he encouraged her. “Just lie back and enjoy yourself.” He brushed his thumb across her clit, still sensitized from their recent joining. She flinched. He shushed her and, even more gently, he began to track his fingers all around her little nub. 

He had an idea then and reached for one of his clean, bright brushes _– the kind that were good for short, controlled strokes._ He flicked it against her, brushing it back and forth, back and forth, careful not get too forceful – just a confirmed hint of contact.

He watched her face intently and noted when she would gasp, her mouth opening slightly in response to the touch of the sturdy little brush. He was quickly learning her body. From his vantage, he was able to watch her body respond, the tender tissue swelling, growing wet and his artist’s eye could see a slight color change, with her most sensitive areas growing darker. He began to press his advantage, sweeping, teasing, stimulating her, using the brush like he might his tongue, but being able to better observe her reactions. 

“Rumple . . . I’m . . . I’m . . .” she lifted her body to him and this time arched as she splintered for him, soft cries with each pulsing wave were delightful to his ears.

“You sound lavender when you come,” he whispered to her and dropped the brush to the floor. 

She giggled softly and wrapped her arms around him. “Wow, I’ve never had anyone say anything like that to me,” she told him.

“And I doubt you will again.” He tilted her head up. “Indulge me again?” he had to ask. She glanced down and realized what he was asking. 

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation.

“Then let’s try a different position.” And he had her onto her knees. 

“I’m not sure about this,” she protested. Gary had always preferred this position but it had never been comfortable for her. 

He stilled, “I’ll stop if you want me to,” he told her. 

She thought about it. “Oh, go ahead. It wasn’t good with Gary, but, well, you’re not Gary,” she told him.

“Lord, I hope not,” he agreed. He was on his knees behind her and lined her up perfectly. This was easily one of his three favorite positions. He could get good penetration for himself and using his hands could usually tease his partner into at least two orgasms. Belle was an exception. She came for him almost immediately and then quickly after a few moments of harder than he’d intended thrusting. He had to think of doing Corella or . . . oh crap, Zelena . . . to keep himself from spilling. He kept going and Belle was shaking a third time in rapid succession. He couldn’t stop himself – she was warm and tight and wet and he thought he’d lose consciousness if he didn’t let himself go. He had vague memories of shouting and held onto a wash of pure pleasure as he released. 

He collapsed, rolling so he didn’t crush her. He pulled her against him and both of them went out. 

Belle stirred first and looked over. Rumple was still lying mostly on top of her, his arms wrapped around her possessively. She was on her stomach and shifted so that she was on her side.

_What had just happened?_

There’d been, if her befuddled count was correct, five splendid orgasms in a relatively short time – five orgasms that she hadn’t given herself, better, if she were honest, than any she had ever given herself. She was wet and sticky and sweaty and . . .  very relaxed and totally satiated. She leaned over and kissed him on his nose. 

He twitched. In a moment, he opened one eye. 

“That was fantastic,” he managed to murmur. 

“Yeah, yeah it was.” She got all quiet. “What do we do now?”

“I need to rest,” he answered honestly, inordinately proud of himself for the moment.

“Well, I will tell you that I’m not particularly inclined to text Corella to find out who won the pool,” she told him.

“Shit, you know about that awful pool?” he winced. “I’m so sorry. My friends are . . . disgusting sometimes.”

“Like mine,” she admitted.

“What? Your friends had the same pool?” 

Belle had to laugh. “I’m sorry to say, yes. And I won’t be notifying Ruby – she’ll figure it out as soon as she sees me anyway.”

Rumple had to laugh also, “Oh lord. Same here . . . but with Jefferson.”

They both chuckled, but then Belle got quiet again.  “How does this change things between us?”

He understood and pulled himself up so that he was sitting.  “I think this makes you my . . . what term do you prefer?  Girlfriend, mistress, lover?”

“Am I still your maid?”

“If you like,” he answered, “but I definitely want you to continue to model for me.”

“Then perhaps I’m your maid with benefits? Your model with benefits?” she asked.

He smiled. “Perhaps. Belle, I do know I don’t want you dating anyone else . . . . Is that too possessive of me?” he was concerned.

“No, as long as you don’t go out with other women.”

“Regina will know then. She’ll figure it out. If I tell her that I can’t escort Susie Fartsmoney to some gala, she’ll know I’m seeing someone and she’ll figure out it’s you.”

Belle shook her head. “I’m not ashamed of what happened. We don’t have to keep this a secret.”

“You want your father to find out?” he asked.

Belle cringed but answered him.  “Even if he finds out, he’ll forget in a couple of hours.  And, if nothing else, my father wants me to be happy, although he probably won’t understand what I’m doing with you,” she admitted.

“Well hell, I can’t figure out what you’re doing with me,” he told her.

“The five orgasms might go a ways in explaining things,” Belle said and stretched.  “If I had realized . . .” and she gave him the most seductive smile he’d ever received from a woman. 

“Wait,” he told her.  “Hold that expression.”  And he vaulted naked from the sofa they were on and fetched his pen and ink.

**The Next Morning**  

Belle was out. She’d gone out running errands, groceries, dry cleaning and such – she’d said something about a luncheon appointment with Regina. Rumple was left working on some of his paintings of his new lady. He loved doing this – and it showed in his work. These pieces were beautiful – they sang like an angelic chorus for him, with uplifting tones and trilling melodies. 

He had never felt more alive, more in tune with himself, more creatively focused. 

It was like he was on fire, a wonderfully, deliciously creative fire. The ideas, the energies, the thoughts, all playing out, flowing from him.

And it was all because of the delectable Miss French. Somehow, her energies interplayed with his and amplified his talents. He could do things because she believed in him. He enjoyed her company. He thrilled at being able to make her smile. He was excited to share bits and pieces about his day with her and, even more surprising, to hear bits and pieces about her day. He felt competent and, yes, powerful, that he was able to satisfy her in the bedroom.

He was definitely in love with her. But it was nothing like he had ever felt before. Always before, his passion consumed him and took away from his work, but Belle, she seemed to be feeding his talents, so that he was now not only more productive, but a better artist.

And music was happening, happening again, happening big time, exploding out of his thoughts, his dreams. Things had come together for him abruptly. He had begun to write down the melodies that were bursting into his mind. He didn’t know what to do with them, but he thought they might be good, too good to just play in his head and then be forgotten.

He was enjoying himself, basking in the emotional warmth he was feeling from his little maid.

Then the doorbell rang, and rang and rang.  Someone was frantic to get his attention.

He peeked out and . . .

It was Milah.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Milah makes a request that changes everything.  
> Belle makes plans for a special Thanksgiving celebration.


	16. That Skipping-Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Milah makes a request that changes everything.  
> Belle makes plans for a special Thanksgiving celebration.

_Belle has begun to pose for Rumple and found it to be a surprisingly erotic experience. As she becomes more comfortable, she begins a slow process of disrobing and things (finally) culminate in mutually satisfying consummation. Rumple finds that his association with Belle is fueling his creative energies and he has never felt more productive. He is alone in the apartment when someone rings the doorbell._

The doorbell rang, and rang and rang.  Someone was frantic to get his attention.

He peeked out and . . .

It was Milah.

He sighed and opened the door. Suddenly all warmth and sunshine felt cooled and dimmed by the arrival of his ex-wife. 

“Yes, dearie?” he asked as she stalked by him and flopped down on the sofa.  

“It’s a disaster. It’s a goddamn fuckin’ disaster,” she announced.

 _Always the lady, Rumple thought and he closed the door behind her._ He went and poured her some of his best whiskey and a second one for himself. He sat down across from her. 

“You’re not looking good,” he informed her. And sure enough, his usually well coifed, put-together svelte ex-wife was dressed in sweatpants, an old teeshirt and her dark hair hung lank about her shoulders. 

“Fuck you,” she responded.

He sat back, folding his arms, knowing that soon enough she would start talking – it was her nature. 

On his third sip of whiskey, she started.  “All right. Killian's been working on this goddamn play for . . . what? . . . about eight years, you know? He got all the backing he needed for his play, especially after you came through. He’s got the theater lined up, the dialogue’s pitch-perfect. It’s cast. It’s choreographed.” She sighed. “Everything is going fine, going along on schedule, ahead of schedule, right? But . . .  it’s so fuckin’ apparent -- most of the songs suck, really, really suck the big one and you just can’t have that in a musical.”

Rumple didn’t answer. His heart had sunk into his shoes. He was guessing where this might be going. He didn’t like it, but he had a pretty good idea of what was to come next. He watched Milah. She finished the first glass of whiskey and he poured her a second one.

She sniffed, wiped away tears and sniffed again. 

“Rumple, I know this would be an enormous, gigantic . . . huge imposition, but . . . but . . . is there any way you could . . . I don’t know . . . it was the only thing we could think of . . . could you maybe look over the songs and . . . you know . . . help?” she lifted her tear-filled eyes to his. 

“You just want me to look over the songs and make a few suggestions?” he asked _hopefully._

“Yeah, that would be great,” she agreed quickly. Then she added, “And maybe spruce some of them up and add to a few of them and . . .  and maybe write a few.”

“Let me get this straight. You want me to write a couple of songs for a Broadway musical.  You just thought, you could drop by and I’d be willing and able to do that for you just like . . .?” He waved a hand as if to invoke The Magic.

“You’ve done it before,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, but that was, what, more than twenty years ago and I was doing music twenty-four/seven then. I haven’t written music in years.”

“But you still can, I know you can,” she told him.

He shook his head, “Bu. . uut, now . . . tell me, why should I?”

“To keep your investment and, if the play is successful, then Killian and I will get married and you won’t have to pay alimony anymore,” she reminded him. “It would be worth it, wouldn’t it?” she asked. 

“How many songs are we looking at?” he asked. _He had loved this woman once, at least, he’d thought he was in love with her. She was beautiful and vivacious and there had been a time when he could refuse her nothing._   

“I don’t know. I know Killian wants a kick-ass opening number and a great closing anthem kind of thing. The ones he has now are lame-ass. And I would guess some of the songs he has could work or would, if you took them in hand.”

He considered his ex-wife’s proposition. “Can you get me a copy of the script?” he asked.

Milah shook her head, “Sure,” and she dug in her Birkin bag and pulled out a rat-eared stapled ream of paper.  “But, you know, it would be best if you could come to New York. It shouldn’t be any longer than six weeks,” she promised.

“Six weeks?” He didn’t buy it. “Milah, you know what New York does to me – it’s too much. It crushed me. And I’ve got a life here that is working for me.” He shook his head. “I’d have to think about relocating to New York, even if it’s just for six weeks.”

“But you’ll think about it?” she pressed him.

He sighed, finished his drink. “Yes, I’ll think about it.”

Milah beamed at him. She stood, “I’m in town for just a couple of days to settle some things about my old house. I’ll see if I can get Killian to get the songs he has together and get him to email them to you. You’ve got my number.” 

He had stood when she had and he walked her to the door. Milah hesitated but then, awkwardly, gave him a quick hug. “You know, you’re a much better ex-husband than you ever were a husband.” She stepped back and looked at him closely. “You’ve been doing your maid, haven’t you – that pretty little thing?”

“My private life is no . . .” he began.

“Yeah,” she interrupted him. And she leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “And I just won the pool,” she smiled at him before leaving.

**A Second Visitor**

Rumple had poured himself a second drink to help him recover from Milah, when the doorbell rang again. 

Oh yes, he’d forgotten this appointment, remembering it as soon as he answered the door. It was Deputy Emma with her portfolio. 

He invited her in. 

“I’ve just got a little while. It’s my lunch time,” Emma apologized. “I really appreciate you doing this for me. I guess I just want to know if you think I have any real talent.  I don’t know that I’d ever want to make my living at it, but maybe, I could make a little extra money or do pictures for my friends as gifts and not be embarrassed that I was giving them trash.” She was nervous and babbling.

He looked over her drawings – her style was very different from his, but he could see that she had The Eye, the insight a true artist needs.

“You draw from love, Miss Swan,” he told her.

“Is that bad?”

“No. You should recognize the source of your talent. The source of my own talent. . . well, it’s something darker and somehow . . .  sweeter . . . like old wine.”

“So, I do have some talent?” she asked.

“As long as you love what you’re working on. Some of these,” he picked out a landscape, “look like school projects. Everything is there where it’s supposed to be, but there’s no spirit, no heart.” He put a few aside, “These are no good.” He picked up some others, “But these others, they have life in them.” He was thumbing through the second stack of pictures and stopped. “Why do you have a portrait of my son?” he asked.

“Your son? But that’s my boyfriend, Neal,” she told him.

“Neal – he’s my son,” Rumple told her. 

The two looked at each other. _Belle’s warning comments to him came flooding back – this was why she had told him not to ‘definitely not hook up’ with Emma._

Emma sat down, “So Neal is your son? I never thought – the different last name.”

Rumple sat down across from her, “He took on his grandmother’s maiden name. We were having a particularly rough patch and he wanted to distance himself from me.”

Emma regarding him closely, “Well, this explains a lot. I know he’s just now talking about introducing me to his parents.”

“Well, he did tell me he had a feisty girlfriend and he wanted us to meet.”

“So, feisty, huh?” Emma smiled at him, “Should we be surprised when he introduces us or should we just go ahead and out each other?”

“Belle . . . Miss French has taught me that it’s better to be honest in relationships, so, do you tell him . . . or do I?”

“I will,” Emma had grown thoughtful and she narrowed her eyes. “Has something changed between you and Belle?”

“I can see that you make a very good police officer, Miss Swan,” he dodged the question. “You’re always suspicious.” He looked at the wall clock. “I think your lunch hour is over.” He stood.

“Yeah,” she agreed and collected her drawings. Once out the door, she called Ruby, “Rubes,” she began. “I think you might have just won the pool.”

**Luncheon Proposition**

Regina had called Belle. She wanted to have lunch with her and, at Belle’s suggestion, they arranged to meet at The Laughing Seed. 

Regina met her there and the two women sat down and ordered. 

“Do you have any idea of why I wanted to meet with you?” she asked Belle.

“No ma’am,” Belle answered. She was beginning to get used to meeting with people that were connected with her employer. Usually they wanted something from Mr. Stiltskin.

“You have been modeling for Rumple, haven’t you?”  Privately Regina thought that Belle looked great, flushed even, energetic and . . . relaxed . . . and satisfied. Regina blinked. _Damn, Milah had won the pool._

Belle nodded, “He’s done a couple of things where he’s had me pose.” 

“Well, I haven’t seen anything he’s done recently, but some of those early drawings he did of you, Belle, they were inspired. They were some of the best things I’ve seen him do in a long while – a long while.”

“I thought they were very flattering,” Belle agreed.

“They’re magnificent,” Regina told her. “I want him to have a showing, but he said I would have to get your permission, since all the drawings were of you.”

“A showing?” Belle repeated.

“A gallery showing. Belle, it . . . well, you may be aware, he’s in a bit of slump, or, at least, he was in a slump, but since he started drawing you . . . wow, is he ever out of his slump. This is probably the best work he’s ever done. You really are making him a better artist.”

“I don’t do anything except sit where he tells me to and . . .  I don’t do anything,” Belle told her. 

“Well, whatever it is you aren’t doing, it has the man working and producing. Belle,” Regina got serious, “I have to tell you that if you agree to this showing . . . it will put you in the public eye. People will want to know who the model is. There may be some publicity and sometimes, with Rum, the publicity has been a bit . . . mean spirited,” Regina was apologetic.

“What do you mean?”

“People will speculate of what your relationship with Rumple is. They’ll want to know, they’ll assume that you’re sleeping together. You may get followed by photographers and sometimes, these photographers can get intrusive and get into your personal life.”

Belle considered. “This stops after a while, right? I mean, these people get bored after a while, right?”

“Usually. But,” Regina looked down at her lap. “Belle, you’re very pretty and the press likes pretty, young women and it could get . . . very intense for you.”

Belle considered some more. “But this would be very good for Mr. Stiltskin, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, very good for him,” Regina agreed.

“Then let’s do it.”

“Thank you, Belle. I will do everything I can to keep your identity secret. We’ll probably do the showing in New York and there’s always a chance the reporters won’t be interested enough to track you down.”

“Let’s hope so,” Belle answered. The two women finished their lunches.

**Plans**

With her father tucked away in a premiere nursing center and doing very well and with Leroy now running the flower shop, along with her income from Mr. Stiltskin, Belle was doing much better financially. A week after her luncheon with Regina, Belle had talked with student services at the university and they were able to help her plan for her final year of study. She would be able to finish in a year, actually about seven months – the Spring Term and one Summer Term. They had suggested she go ahead and get started on her internship with a local library; Belle was to start putting in three afternoons and a couple of Saturdays a month to pick up the required hours. It further cut into the time she had to do routine chores, but she thought it was well worth it.

One of the things really helping her numbers was staying with Mr. Stiltskin and working for him. She had a place to stay and a steady income to pay for everyday expenses. She’d be able to get her degree and . . . and then she could get a real job.

When she’d come back after her meeting, she had tried to talk to Rumple about where her plans stood, but, like so often lately, he seemed distracted and non-communicative. He wasn’t interested in finishing his latest painting of her. He ignored her, lost in his own train of thought, when she tried to talk to him. In fact, he seemed startled when he suddenly noticed her in the kitchen with him.

“I’m sorry, Belle. I’ve had something on my mind and I’m not a very attentive to anything else right now.”

“What’s going on? Anything I can help with?” she immediately asked, offering her assistance.

He smiled at her. “You always want to help, don’t you? That’s your first thought – anytime anyone’s in pain or having trouble, you want to help.”

“Of course,” she told him.

“Understand, I’m not used to that. I’ve been around people all my life that their first thought is, ‘How does this affect me?’ You are an aberration, a lovely, pleasant, delightful anomaly.”

“What is going on?” she asked him _suspicious_. _Something was up._

“Milah wants me to go to New York for six weeks,” he told her, things beginning to spill out. “Well, she says it’s six weeks, but probably, we’re looking at six months, even longer. Killian, the man she left me for, he’s putting together a new play and needs help with the music. It’s what I used to do, well, you know that, and if I can help them, make the play a success, Milah has promised me that she’ll marry Killian, which will end my financial obligation to her – no more alimony. Plus, if the damn thing is a success, I may get a return on my rather sizeable investment. It may be worth it, but it would mean that . . .” he stopped.

“You’d have to go to New York for, maybe, as long as six months?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he agreed. He looked up at her. “You wouldn’t consider finishing your schooling at some college in New York City, would you? I think they have some colleges there,” he speculated.

Belle smiled, “I think there are several colleges in that area, but I’m all set up at the university here and if I change, it could mean losing some credits and I’d be away from my dad and . . .” she looked at him hopelessly.

“So, no. I understand. I don’t want to go either. I hated New York. I know many people love the place, but it was just too noisy. . . too much for me. It wasn’t a good match.  But more than all that . . . Belle, I don’t want to be separated from you . . . not now.”

“But it would be for what? Six months, at the most?”

“Well, maybe I would be finished in six weeks, that would take us up to Thanksgiving.  You could certainly stay here while I’m away and come up to New York on alternate weekends.”

Belle stood quietly a moment, absorbing the news. She could see that Rumple was torn as to what to do. “You don’t need my permission, you know,” she told him. 

“But I want it,” he shared immediately.

“As I hear it, this is something that will cost you some time and some . . . distress, but could really pay off big-time – financially and . . . what? emotionally – bringing some closure to an old broken relationship.”

“Exactly. I adore how you understand me . . . and stuff,” he seemed relieved.

“Then it all sounds workable,” she agreed. “And, if you are still in New York when I’m back at school, well, we could always see each other during school breaks and whenever you can get away from the play . . .”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” he agreed. “And we can do that, what do they call it? that skipping-thing?”

Belle bit her lip. “Skyping,” she corrected him. “It sounds good,” she agreed.

“Yeah, it sounds good.” he told her.

“Then why do I feel that we may be saying goodbye to each other?”

“I don’t know,” he looked at her and then drew her into his arms. “I feel the same way. I don’t want to be separated from you for a day, much less six months. And I don’t know how to skype,” he confessed. “I’m not good with electronic stuff and . . . if this goes into next year then you’re going to need to study and write papers and stuff and I’m going to need to be writing and, oh god, probably working with crazy choreographers – they’re the worse -- and we won’t really have a lot of time.”

“Rumple,” she looked at him. “I know you told me that I didn’t have to say anything, but I want you to know . . . I love you too. And if what we have is real, we’ll manage this. If it’s not, we need to know, so we can both move on.” She kissed him lightly. “This might be a good thing, you know? Maybe being separated will help us get to our goals – we won’t be distracting each other.”

Rumple was not convinced. “I like being distracted by you,” he muttered.

**Into November**

It had been another week before he’d left and they were now maintaining separate residences. 

The first night apart had been the most difficult. Belle had curled up in Rumple’s bed, hugging his pillow to her so she could wrap herself in his scent. It was most comforting.  Rumple had called her that night as soon as he got settled into his hotel in New York. He was grumpy and difficult, but then Belle reminded him of one of their times together, the time when she had pushed him back onto the bed and straddled him. She heard him chuckle.

“That was the time that you wore that little green dress and when you took it off, you naughty girl, I found out that you hadn’t been wearing anything _anything_ underneath it.  From that day on, I’ve been left wondering what you might have on underneath your clothes.  It drives me crazy.”

Belle had to smile _but she had to wonder if she would have enough dirty stories to sustain them._     

One week became two and two became three. They talked together a lot, often exchanging titillating stories – Belle might share what she was wearing and Rumple would share exactly how (and with what) he would be touching her, were he with her.  Then there were those times when he would tell her exactly how he wanted her to touch herself, that he wanted to hear the little whimpering noises she would make when she was about to come for him. Other times, Belle would talk about some of their past liaisons, how she’d felt when he’d slammed her against the door, or when he’d taken her on the floor of the living room and even those times when she had slipped to her knees to explore him with her tongue and her mouth – he really seemed to enjoy those particular chats. 

_As satisfying as these talks were, she still missed the corporeal reality of the man._

Rumple also complained _a lot_ about what a total bitch the whole New York thing was.  He told her how Killian was an idiot and the choreographer was insane and Milah was a pain. As a counterpoint, Belle regaled him with stories about Ruby, about Jefferson and even about Regina, who had swept through and collected his drawings of her, so that they could be framed and sent up to some swank New York gallery. 

As Rumple had feared, the six weeks of song writing wasn’t finished by Thanksgiving, but he had insisted on taking a break to get back to Asheville to connect with Belle (plus he had the obligatory Lunch with Mother to tick off his To-Do List).  He flew into the small Asheville airport and scanned the crowd once he’d gotten off the plane. 

She stood out like a beacon, dressed in a purple and blue patterned dress with a lace endowed over-jacket. She wore blue stockings and little blue suede shoes with round toes, a strap and a petite bow. One of her handknit slouch hats sat on her head. But she stood out from the crowd, not because of the clothing, but because, in his eyes, she glowed. She spotted him a moment after he had seen her.

He was afraid seeing her again would be awkward but instead, it was like coming home, coming home to a warm, welcoming place. She had smiled at him and rushed into his arms.  He had wrapped himself around her and in front of others at the airport had kissed her – he didn’t care who saw them, what they thought. He had so missed this, missed her. 

“You cut your hair,” she told him, her hand reaching up to feel around his neck.

“It seemed the thing to do,” he explained. “I told you, New York does strange things to my psyche.”

“I like it. It brings out your eyes,” she told him. They separated and walked over to pick up his single suitcase. “I was afraid that seeing you again would be awkward, but it’s not.  It’s like . . .” she struggled.

“I’ve come home,” he suggested and she nodded eagerly.

Once his bag was retrieved, they walked to the car and began the drive back to the city. Belle had taken the driver’s seat.

“You know I had just planned for a quiet Thanksgiving for us, with you, me and my dad,” she began slowly as she drove, taking the turn onto I-26. 

“And that sounds perfect. Just the three of us, watching the parade, the dog show, some stupid early Christmas special while we’re eating a little turkey and dressing and pecan pie,” he told her.

“Well,” she was hesitant.

“Something’s changed?” he asked.

“Well, my dad is coming, at least I’ve arranged for one us, both of us, to go get him early Thursday morning. He’s got a day pass, so that part’s still happening.”

“But?” he asked. She was clearly holding back.

“Well, a couple of days ago, Neal called and wanted to join us and, of course, he also wants to bring Emma.”

“He’s still seeing Emma, your little artist-deputy friend – pretty blonde?” Rumple asked her.

Belle nodded, “It’s serious, really serious. Emma’s missed a couple of Girls’ Nights Out because she’s doing something with Neal. I’m wondering if he’s planning to announce their engagement.”

“You think?!” Rumple was surprised. He considered. His son was old enough to be thinking of marriage, older than he had been when he and Milah had gotten married – of course, that had not worked out too well. “You told him that he and Emma could join us?” he asked Belle.

“Certainly,” Belle assured him. “I knew you’d take any and every opportunity to be with your son.”

“Well, that’s not too bad. Just the five of us.”

Belle looked uncomfortable, “Uhm, Rumple . . .” she began.

“Who else did you invite?” he asked.

“Jefferson called and he sounded so pitiful – his daughter is spending the holiday with her mother and he is going to be all alone since, apparently, all of his floozies are going home to their mommas for the long weekend.”

“So, you invited Jefferson.”

“Yeah, I invited Jefferson,” she confirmed.  She didn’t say anything more.

“Anyone else?” Rumple was beginning to get an uncomfortable feeling about this Thanksgiving.

“Okay,” Belle sighed and began. “Your father called.”

“No, Belle, no.  I don’t want to have him over for Thanksgiving.  Growing up, that son of bitch’s idea of Thanksgiving was a Taco Bell gordita and a bottle of tequila.”

“I know, I know. He was a terrible father.”

“And a terrible human being,” Rumple added.

“But we aren’t. . .  terrible human beings. And he is all alone.”

“Deserves to be. He’s mistreated everyone he should have loved and cared for.”

“He has and he knows that and he might even be sorry.”

Rumple closed his eyes. “You asked him to come,” he stated flatly.

“I did,” she admitted. “I was looking at a group of seven and I figured we could seat him far, far away from you. You won’t have to speak to him or anything.”

“Shit,” Rumple was not happy.

“He _is_ your father, even if he is terrible,” she reminded him.

“You are too nice, Belle,” he told her.

He waited a moment longer and again the uncomfortable feeling began to grow. “There’s more isn’t there?” he asked.

Belle didn’t look at him.

“Isn’t there?” he asked again.

“Maybe,” she answered cringing just a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belle reveals the entire Thanksgiving Invitation List  
> and Rumple and Belle enjoy a little reunion sex


	17. More Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle reveals the entire Thanksgiving Invitation List.  
> And Rumple and Belle enjoy a little reunion sex.

_Belle and Rumple have survived more than a month of separation and, although Rumple will have to return to New York, they have rejoined just in time for Thanksgiving. Belle has picked him up at the airport and on the drive back to the apartment, she begins to share an ever-growing guest list for what had initially been planned as a quiet family Thanksgiving celebration._

 

“There’s more isn’t there?” Rumple had pressed her.

Belle took a deep breath before she began. “Yes, there’s more. Mary Margaret and David were going to go to his mother’s, but she’s not doing well and really isn’t up for hosting. So Mary Margaret was thinking of having her over to their place and then she heard about me having so many others and we talked about it and I thought, what the heck, and . . . well . . . now they’re coming too.”

“All right.” He had no particular problems with Belle’s quiet friend, Mary Margaret. He didn’t know the new husband or the man’s mother, _but what the hell?_ “So, what’s the body count now?”

“Well, it was ten at that point,” she answered.

“It _was_ ten? It’s not still ten?” he asked.

“I was complaining to Ruby about having to fit ten people, some of whom don’t like each other, into the apartment and then having to serve them food. She suggested we bring them all to the restaurant and get a party room. The restaurant is already open for the holiday, it being a big event, pulling in a ton of money. Ruby could arrange the room for a minimal fee, and, she said, if she and Granny could join our party, then for no fee. Granny would even provide the turkey, dressing and gravy, if I would arrange for all the sides and the drinks.”

“So, it’s twelve people now?” Rumple asked. They were almost back to his apartment.

“Well, Ruby is bringing her current boyfriend, Archie, and because he doesn’t have any family in the area, her previous boyfriend, James Whale.”

“How democrat of her. So, fourteen?”

“Oh, I forgot Regina asked if she could come . . . .” There was a long pause and Belle added in a rush, “and bring her sister.”

“Oh crap, Belle! Zelena can’t come. I don’t want to see Zelena again,” he protested.

“But Regina pleaded with me. She didn’t want to spend Thanksgiving with her mother and sister, so she told them that we had asked her over. And Zelena . . . well, you know how she can be – she insisted that she should come too.”

“Shit,” Rumple whispered under his breath. “Did Cora invite herself too?”

“No, apparently, she hates your fish-eating guts and forbade both of her daughters to come, so . . .” Belle sighed, “now both sisters feel they _have_ to come to show their solidarity in their defiance of their mother. Regina did tell me that she tried to make Zelena understand how unwelcome she would be, but, you know, Zelena’s kinda dense in that department.”

“No, she’s not,” Rumple told her.

Belle considered and had to agree. “Maybe not. But I know you care about Regina and if she comes, it looks like she has to come with Zelena. Oh yeah, both of them are bringing their new boyfriends.”

“Regina has a boyfriend?” _This was news._

“Yes. She’s really excited about him. He’s a widower with a small child, an adorable little boy.”

“And Zelena’s bringing some one too?”

“She’ll be coming with her new boyfriend. I’m guessing she wants to show you that she’s totally gotten over you.”

“Gee, I’m crushed.” He counted. “We’re up to what? Nineteen? Is that the final count?”

Belle sighed. “I got a phone call while you were on the plane.”

“I’m holding my breath,” he told her. 

“She wasn’t expecting to be in town and had made other plans.”

“Who wasn’t expecting to be in town?” he asked.

“Uhm,” Belle was really having a tough time with this next piece of news.

“Who wasn’t expecting to be in town?” he pressured her.

“Milah,” Belle shared this quietly. When Rumple didn’t say anything, she began to add, “Things fell through and she found out there are still some things she has to get closed out here.”

“You invited my ex-wife?” he was appalled.

“Well, she’s another one who kinda invited herself. You know some pushy women, Rumple,” Belle turned on him.

“Yeah, this is all my fault. I do know a lot of pushy women, but it seems I also know at least one woman who has the backbone of a jellyfish.”

“Should I have said absolutely not?”

“That would have worked for me,” Rumple groused.

“Well,” Belle said in small voice. “She really did sound pitiful.”

“I’m sure she did,” Rumple relented. “But, I guess with this crowd she won’t be too burdensome. Maybe we can put her at the same table as Zelena.”

There was a pause and Belle burst out, “Milah’s bringing her boyfriend.”

Rumple gave up. “Of course, she is. You know this is the same man who was responsible for the end of my marriage. Who, against my better judgement, I’ve been working with for the past nearly six weeks, who I was looking forward to being apart from, even if it were for a little while. Now, I’m going to have to spend a holiday, that I had hoped I would be able to spend with my girlfriend, my lovely, delicious overly-generous, too-nice-for-her-own-good girlfriend, with the ponce.”

"I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to say. Milah was hysterical when she called.”

“Milah is _always_ hysterical. Especially when she wants something. Everything is a crisis with that woman,” he explained to Belle. “She’s like my mother, Belle. She can turn it on and off as it suits her.”

“Oh, I almost forgot, Leroy and Astrid are coming too,” she mentioned the former building maintenance man and his new wife. Belle had always gotten along with the grumpy maintenance man and she adored his flippery little wife, who was now pregnant. She’d gotten closer to him when he’d stepped in to take over her father’s florist’s shop. 

He took several deep calming breaths. “So, I’m celebrating Thanksgiving with my girlfriend, her father, my son and his girlfriend, my best friend, my disgusting father, my agent, her boyfriend and his son, my agent’s crazy-ass sister – who is my ex-girlfriend -- and her current boyfriend, two of my girlfriend’s best friends, with one of their grandmothers, that girlfriend’s boyfriend and her ex-boyfriend, the other girlfriend’s husband and her husband’s mother, my ex-wife and her boyfriend and my maintenance man and his wife. Delightful, just delightful. The only thing that could possibly make this more uncomfortable would be if my mother was coming.”

Belle didn’t say anything. They had arrived back at the parking garage and she pulled the car into a space and got out.

Rumple was watching her. She hadn’t said anything when he had thrown his mother into the mix. She was rushing about, not making eye contact with him, opening the trunk and getting out his bags. She closed the truck not looking at him.

“Belle,” he caught her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Belle, tell me, please, assure me, that my mother is not coming.”

Belle looked up at him and he could see there were tears threatening to spill over. “She called and, well, she’s kept up her end with my dad. He’s really in a great place and they’re taking good care of him and when she started talking about being all alone . . .”

“You caved,” he accused her. “She slithered right into your good graces and you caved. You invited her, didn’t you?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry. I knew you’d be mad.”

“Mad! Mad doesn’t begin to cover how I feel.” 

“You’re mad at me. I’ll call and tell her she can’t come,” Belle said.

“No, no. That won’t work.”

Belle sniffed and turned to walk back to the apartment. He caught her and turned her around. “I’m not mad at you. Please, please understand this.” He closed his eyes a moment and took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself down.  He began slowly and softly, “Of course, you said 'yes' to all those people. It’s who you are. You’re kind and generous and understanding. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t say 'yes' to them.” He closed his eyes again for a moment before continuing. “I’m mad at them because they took advantage of your good nature. And,” he paused another moment, “I’m mad at myself because I’m a selfish bastard who was really just looking forward to having you most of the weekend to myself.”

“Oh, Rumple,” she flung her arms around his neck. “It’ll just be for one day and they’ll all go home.”

“Yes, then I can have you all to myself.” He sighed. “What are we doing about food for this crowd? I know you said Granny was doing the turkey but what about the rest of the food?”

“I’ve asked everyone to bring their favorite side. I didn’t make any assignments so it will all be potluck. Should be fun.” She gave him one of her brilliant smiles and picked up one of his smaller bags.  She began to walk up the stairs to the apartment.

He watched her walk away from him and shook his head. _Fun!? Yeah, this sounded like fun. Potluck indeed. This had all the makings of a major disaster._

He picked up the heavier case and walked behind his little maid, caretaker, model, love of his life. He reminded himself that they had a couple of hours before nightfall and the Day of Life in Hell would begin. 

_They had gotten to his apartment door. It had been almost six weeks and during that time he had been easily and absolutely faithful to this woman, except for the occasional foray (which he didn't count) into self-abuse when she had been a featured player in his mind._

He leaned into her, speaking into her ear. “I’ve been thinking, as much as I enjoyed phone sex with you, actually being with you, is sooo much better.  I’ve been contemplating all the different ways I want to enjoy you. Shall we start in the bedroom?” he asked.

She blushed and nodded. “I got on birth control while you in New York, so we don’t have use the . . .  thingys.” 

“I guess the money I spent on a carton of them was wasted then . . . although,” he said thoughtfully, “there is a thing we could do when it would probably be a good idea for me to wear a . . . thingy.”

Belle’s mind worked it out . . . “Euue . . . well . . . I guess. That’s never been good for me, though,” she told him.

“Later, we’ll talk about being adventuresome, later,” he promised her. 

They had made it through the door of the apartment, closing it behind themselves. He pushed his luggage to one side and pulled Belle against him, putting her between himself and the wall.  With his hands around her waist he lowered his mouth to hers and was duly rewarded with her eagerly returning his kiss.  He nudged her mouth open, tasting her for the first time in too many months and she was even sweeter than he’d remembered. He could hear the tinkling harpsichord music, rising, lifting him up as he kissed her – and her sweet vanilla and roses scent – and the colors, pink and white and silver all beginning to fade into lavender as she made small sounds against his mouth. He began to lift up her skirts, bunching them up and around her waist.  She slipped her hands inside his jacket and began to pull it down from his shoulders.  He stopped a moment to shrug it off and let it hit the floor. 

“God, I’ve missed you,” he muttered, one of his hands sliding up her smooth bare thigh finding out quickly that what he had thought were stockings were socks. This gave him direct access to her little panties and he let his hand rest on her hip for a moment while he gave full attention to pressing kisses along her neck, delighting in feeling her shiver as her own arousal grew. Slowly he allowed his fingers to hook the waistband of her undies and tug them down from her waist. Belle was panting and her pupils had dilated. He planted one more quick kiss on her lips and then focused more on his ultimate goal, bending over, dropping himself to kiss her chest, then her stomach. He was on his knees in front of her, his damaged knee screaming, but he ignored it. He went under her voluminous skirts, drinking in her sweet fragrance. 

Now exactly where he wanted to be, he was able to pull her panties down her legs, reveling in the wetness he’d found. She stepped out of them and he promptly put one of her legs over his shoulder. With her skirts now falling over his head he was in a sensuous world of shadows and lights, scents and tinkling musical melodies, lost in his own unique world of sensory collisions. He began slowly, kissing her silky, soft thighs. He could feel one of her hands on his shoulder and the other was on his head. She was holding onto him for balance. He softly breathed on her most delicate skin and he heard her moan. Using his tongue, he began to flick back and forth along her cleft, quickly feeling her own little nub harden. 

Belle had not expected this, this abrupt love-making, her own quick response, but it had been so long, too long without each other and she couldn’t bring herself to tell him to slow down or wait _or stop_ until they got to the bedroom. He was working magic with his tongue, his fingers, always so gentle but so persistent. He’d always seemed to understand her body, better than she did herself. He would bring her right to brink and then would back away, once to insert two fingers into her sopping channel, hooking them just, just right.  She heard herself begin to beg him not to stop, please don’t stop.  And, finally, finally, he didn’t, placing his mouth right over her sensitized clit and teasing it over and over and over with his tongue. She screamed into her first orgasm, nearly collapsing onto him, her muscles softening and sagging. 

Rumple began to slowly pull himself upright, still placing kisses along her body as he stood straighter and straighter next to her, pulling her up with him as he rose.  He reached down to unzip his pants, not bothering to release his belt but rather to just pull out his swollen cock, so hard it was nearly flat to his stomach. He moved his hands to her bottom to lift her up and then dropped her slowly onto himself, pressing her back to the door. 

It was exactly what she needed and, feeling herself so penetrated, so thoroughly impaled, was enough to send her over the edge again. He supported her as she clung to him, nearly mindless with the pleasure waves that still thrumbed through her. Then he began his own thrusts, always answered by little whimpers as her soft body absorbed his strong, male energies, her back pressed hard against the sturdy door.  He was too far along to last very long and Belle’s enthusiastic response to his love-making, coupled with the reception her very wet and very tight body had given him, pushed him over the edge in minutes. He felt himself lose it and he released himself in several long, very satisfying sprays. Belle looked at him at that moment and smiled and he knew she had felt him deep inside her own body. He kissed her again, this time slow and gently.

The two hung on to each other for a few moments, both of them panting and sweating.

“I thought we were going to the bedroom,” Belle managed to get out.

“We will,” he agreed. “I just couldn’t wait. I’ve missed you so much. And you looked so damn good and smelled so good and . . . I couldn’t wait.”

She ducked her head, “I’m glad. That was . . . different.”

“What say we plan on a little something in every room of the apartment this weekend?” he asked, guiding her back to the bedroom, his bedroom.

“Every room?” she asked.

“Well, maybe twice in my bathroom. That soaker tub with the side jets has a lot of possibilities.”

Belle laughed. “I guess we have a lot of time to make up for,” she agreed.

 

They ordered in, Belle wrapping a thick robe around herself to get the door, leaving Rumple still in the bathtub.  She brought back some pizza and beer and joined him again in the tub. 

“Tell me, is New York as bad as you thought it was going to be?”

He had pulled her up against himself, so that she was sitting, her back to his front, between his legs. The position gave him wonderful access to her most sensitive areas.  She leaned back into him while they both ate a couple of slices of pizza and savored their beer.

“Actually, no,” he told her. “What’s different is that I have you, talking to you nearly every night. It keeps the noise down.”

“Really? I’m helping?”

“Yes. You . . .” he struggled to explain. “You make things . . . more pink, more soft. I would call you every time I would start to get overwhelmed and you would make me feel all calm again.” He began kissing along her neck. “And how has your college prep stuff been going.”

“Looking good,” she shivered. “I’m completely set up, ready to go. They let me start on the internship and I’ve already knocked out most of my hours. And, I’ve got things paid for and I should be able to get through with one course during their short mid-winter semester and three this next spring semester and my last two in the first summer session. When will you be back for good?”

He was up to her ear, lightly tracing it with his tongue. “I don’t know. It is coming along. Killian asked for two songs and I was able to give him seven.”

She turned to look at him. “How on earth did you have seven songs in you?”

“Some were songs that I had written since you started working for me,” he confessed. “Well,” he corrected, “they all were songs that I had written since you started working for me.”

“I had no idea,” she, as always, was amazed at the depth of the man’s talent.

“Hey, I watched a rehearsal of the play and the songs I had on hand seemed to fit really well and Killian thought so, too.  The cast seemed to like them.”

“Is this play any good?” Belle asked him.

Rumple considered before answering. “It’s hard to know. Ultimately the public makes that decision, but . . . I think . . . yes, it is. I don’t like Killian. I never will, but he does have some real talent as a playwright and a director.” He kissed Belle’s nose. “Don’t you dare ever tell him or Milah that I said that.”

“Of course not,” and she leaned in to kiss him on the mouth.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

Belle giggled and did as he requested, ending up sitting on his lap with her knees on either side of his hips. He gently lifted her and slid into her. When she attempted to rock back and forth, he held her still. 

“Let’s just enjoy this closeness,” he told her. 

“But . . . but . . .” Belle was feeling delightfully stretched and full and wanting more. “I want to move.”

“When I say,” he told her, focusing on kissing her, her mouth opening to his and his hand buried in her hair to hold her still. 

Belle could never quite get enough of his kisses, deep and penetrating, very nearly as arousing as actual sex with the man. He would murmur against her mouth, letting her know how sweet she tasted, how beautiful she sounded. 

“I like it when you make all those little sounds,” he said.

“Thank you, but I want to move,” she protested. This sitting quietly, all the while feeling full and stretched, but with no further stimulation, was nearly unbearable.

Belle held on to him, to his shoulders, her fingers nearly clawing at him.  Her head went back and she might have gone into the water except for his support. _She recognized this was Tantric Sex, close, slow contact._ She felt him lifting her head so that she was now looking directly into his eyes, steadily, continuously gazing. 

He began slowly, making a series of short thrusts followed by a single deep push, impaling her completely.  He continued with short thrusts followed by deep pushes, the short movements decreasing in number while the deep pushes increased. 

When it began, it was barely noticeable, a faint flicker, coiling, tightening, clenching and then slowly, slowly uncoiling, beginning as a small wave, but building into bigger and bigger, stronger and stronger waves and she heard them both, crying out, nearly screaming with the long, long powerful release that swept them both away.

She dropped her head on his shoulder, tears flowing freely. 

“Intense,” was all he said.

“Very,” she agreed. Then she looked at him, bleary-eyed and relaxed. “I still love you,” she told him.

He pulled her in for a gentle kiss. “That’s good to hear, because I still love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT: The Thanksgiving Day dinner begins (alcohol is involved) 
> 
> Just a word here, should anyone be interested -- because I'm not a visual person, I often keep a Pinterest file (Twyla Mercedes) for my stories. I can look through these when I write and get some inspiration. The one for this story is under the file name Artist on Fire (what else?) and contains images that reflect Belle's Mori Kei dress style, as well as odd pictures of things we might find in Rumple's Industrial Chic loft apartment, the occasional knitting project, Asheville (and some -- oh no, spoiler alert -- some vintage wedding dresses). -thx twyla


	18. Gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Thanksgiving Day dinner begins (alcohol is involved).

_Belle has reluctantly confessed to inviting way too many people to what was supposed to have been a quiet Thanksgiving Meal. Rumple has, with some insight, accepted that this is a result of Belle’s generous nature.  The two celebrated their reunion with some rushed and, then, some gentle physical contact, reiterating their love for each other._

The next morning came too soon.  They had only made two more rooms, the bedroom and his bathroom by the time the alarm rang out and Belle let him know they needed to get on the road to get her father and bring him over to the apartment.

“I’m making a green bean casserole. It doesn’t take a lot of work and we can all watch the parade before we head off to the Diner.”

As they made their way out of the apartment, Rumple observed all the pieces of dropped clothing, including her little panties, which were on the floor right in front of the door. 

“I guess we need to have a talk with your maid, Mr. Stiltskin,” she told him as she bent down to pick up her underwear, along with his jacket and sundry other garments that were scattered in a line back to their bedroom.

“She’s a lippy wench, so watch yourself,” he told her, picking up his suitcases to bring them back to the bedroom. He’d worry about unpacking later.  “But don’t upset her,” he called back.  “She’s too valuable for me to risk losing her.”

**Thanksgiving Begins**

Belle and Rumple had driven out to pick up her father. He was in good spirits and recognized Rumple as his landlord. As they pulled up to Granny’s Diner, Belle was holding her breath. _Whatever happened today would be on her. She’d allowed this mis-matched group of people to come together._

Ruby greeted her with a big smile at the car. “Need any help?” she asked.

Belle looked back in the car. “I’ll help my dad inside. Can you get my casserole?”

Rumple smiled at Belle’s best friend, “I’m bringing in some liquor,” he told her.

Ruby nodded, “Glad somebody thought to bring some booze. This is going to be a real fun par-tay.”

“Fun is one word for it,” agreed Rumple, who opened the trunk of his car and picked up one of two boxes he’d brought that contained multiple bottles of strong alcohol from dubious origins. 

Ruby had seen into the car trunk. “Two boxes of booze. Two turkeys. I think this is going to go along just fine,” she told him, approvingly.

Rumple nearly grinned. He liked this friend of Belle’s. Hell, he liked all of Belle’s friends, perhaps better than he liked most of his own friends.

“I’m just a little worried about the weather,” Belle told her friend as they walked into the diner. “We’re supposed to have snow. It’s so early in the season.”

“We should be all right here, even if we get snowed in. We’ve got a back-up generator,” Ruby told her.

“But what if we get snowed in?” Rumple asked. “I only signed on for part of one day with these people.”

“If it starts getting bad, we can just break it up early,” Belle advised him.  “Part of one day is probably the maximum amount of time this group of people will be able to manage without a fight breaking out.”

“Hey, I’ve had a lot of experience dealing with ‘diverse’ family groups. Granny’s had even more. Worse case scenario, she’ll let Bessie do her talking,” Ruby told them and she made her hand into the shape of a gun and ‘fired’ it.

“Won’t be nothin’ goin’ down that Granny can’t handle,” Ruby assured them both. She glanced down at Belle’s covered casserole dish. “I’m going to put your green bean casserole on the buffet with the other ones.”

“Oh, somebody else brought a green bean casserole?” Belle asked.

“ _Everybody_ else brought green bean casserole . . . or they will,” Ruby told her. “I’m holding out hope that someone will bring a pie, even if it’s a Mrs. Smith’s from the grocery store. Pie, I’m so hoping for pie.”

Belle glanced around. Rumple had dropped the liquor in a corner and then escorted her father to a quiet corner.  He’d sat down next to the older man. Her father was doing well, still frail and easily confused, but certainly no longer losing ground. There was a large television screen across from them and they were watching the dog show. Rumple had brought her father some iced tea and he was beginning on his second mixed drink, if Belle had kept an accurate count.

Already arrived ahead of them were Mary Margaret, David, and David’s mother, a delightful older woman, who David set next to Belle’s father. 

Mary Margaret had quickly pulled Belle aside, “Do we expect fireworks?” she asked in a low tone.

“Probably, I’m hoping we can keep Rumple set far enough away from his parents to prevent too much happening.”

“I’ve never met his mother,” Mary Margaret told her. “What’s she like?”

“Beautiful, even for her age, especially for her age. But . . .” Belle didn’t like to speak ill of anyone, “according to Rumple, she’s a heartless harpy.”

“I’ll steer clear of her.”

“I’ve put Ruby on one side of her and Jefferson on the other. I think they’ll be able to handle her,” Belle told her friend.

Jefferson came in just then.  He had bought three pies which immediately put him into Ruby’s good graces.  Belle was pleased that effervescent Ruby and out-going Jefferson hit it off – they both had similar open, honest outlooks and jived on most issues. 

And the pie had helped.

“And Mr. Stiltskin’s father? What have you done with him?” Mary Margaret had asked.

“Put him next to Leroy and Neal, who was all right with me doing that.  Just watch yourself around him. He still fancies himself irresistible to women.”

“Well, he is kind of a cutie,” Mary Margaret was looking over the older Stiltskin, who had just come in. He was carrying a case of beer.

“Only from a distance,” Belle assured her. She put a smile on her face and went over to her boyfriend’s (Rumple was her boyfriend, her lover, her companion, her partner, her employer, what was the right word?) father.

“Oh, Miss Belle,” he was effusive as always. “You are the kindest person to have invited this poor lonely man to your celebration.” 

“Promise me, you’ll be on your best behavior,” Belle told him as sternly as she could, without dancing around the issue. “If you get into anything with Rumple, I’ll have you thrown out.”

The older man gave her a slow smile, “A spine of steel. Good girl. I’ll be good.” He leaned in to her, “Please, tell me though. There is a nasty rumor that Rumple’s mother will be in attendance. Please, please, tell me it’s not true.”

“She was given an invitation and said she would come,” Belle told him. “You won’t be sitting near her.”

“Thank you,” he muttered. 

Belle handed him one of the beers he’d brought to the meal. 

“Thank you very much,” he told her.

The rest of the guests trickled in, everyone bringing in their own version of green bean casseroles, except for Jefferson and Whale (who had both brought multiple pies) and Malcolm Stiltskin (who’d brought beer).

Zelena had made a entrance, waiting until past the time dinner was to be served. A tall man with pleasant features followed her. Zelena made a bee-line to Rumple. 

“Darling, this is my new boyfriend, Walsh Singe. He adores me and I’m so very happy with him.”

Rumple rose and shook hands with the somewhat bewildered Mr. Singe. “I’m very glad that you and Miss Hart have found each other. She’s . . . special.”

“I understand you and that homely little maid you acquired have paired off,” Zelena continued.

“Yes, it was only at her intercession that you’ve been accepted as a guest.” Rumple narrowed his eyes at the tall red-head who didn’t seem to understand.  “She intervened on your behalf,” he explained. When he was still met with uncertainty, he again attempted to clarify, “Miss French was the one who said you could come.”

“Oooh,” Zelena said, then she tried to look pretty, pouting.  “Well, I guess I just owe her one.”

“Yes, so play nicely or Granny will ask you to leave,” he warned her.

“Granny?! That little ole lady?  What will she do?” Zelena didn’t appear concerned.

“Well, I just understand that she can be very persuasive,” he finished up, nodding at the young Mr. Singe and, to Zelena’s frustration, turning his attention elsewhere.

The last to arrive was Miss Black. The woman had stopped at the door, her eyes scanning the crowd. She seemed reluctant to come inside the large room already filled with people. Belle saw her and went over to greet her.

“Miss French,” she nodded at the younger woman. “I didn’t quite know what to bring.” And she pointed to a cooler she was pulling. “I brought liquor – a lot of liquor.”

“Seems appropriate,” Belle told her. “I’ll take that and put it aside. Let me introduce you to a few people.” Belle led her over to Jefferson who immediately adopted his most charming manner, even to kissing the back of the woman’s hand. Ruby greeted the woman in her usual forthright manner. 

“We’re your seatmates,” Ruby told her. “I can tell you who everyone else here is, that is, if you want to know.”

“Is that Malcolm Stiltskin?” Miss Black asked, peering through the throng of people. “I had no idea he would be here.”

“He’s your ex, isn’t he? Plenty of those here,” Ruby told her. “One of my ex-boyfriend’s here.”

“The tall, blond doctor?” Jefferson had asked her, his interest perking up. “You must introduce us, Ruby darling,” his eyes flicking over the stalwart young surgeon. Jefferson sighed and continued, “Now, as for exes, Rumple’s got everyone beat. He’s got an ex-wife, an ex-girlfriend, his ex-wife’s lover, and his ex-girlfriend’s lover here.”

“Not to mention his current lover,” Ruby added with a twinkle in her eye.

“Interesting,” was all Miss Black said. Her eyes had strayed to her son who was now leaning back having yet another drink. He was engaged with David’s mother, Belle’s father and Leroy, who were all talking horticulture.  Rumple was obviously bored, having no interest in flowers, but he was sufficiently mellowed out from alcohol imbibition that he would have sat in on a conversation about dust.

Miss Black also took in the father of her son. Malcolm had managed to gather a group around himself, David, Killian, Archie and Whale and they were in an animated discussion about cars _well, Belle had thought it was about cars – there had been comments about someone having a nice chassis_. 

Miss Black slid herself off to one side of the room where she could watch the crowd. Jefferson had brought her a drink from one of the whiskey bottles she had brought, pouring himself one also. He had then stayed by her side and began to share funny stories about the different people there, some of them actually true. Miss Black found herself amused by the young man and at the end of his third story, she graced him with a smile.

“Why did you want to come here?” Jefferson asked her quietly.

“I had nowhere else to go. And this is one of those few times that it is lonely to be by yourself,” she’d answered him. “Why did you want to come here?”

“It’s my daughter’s turn to spend Thanksgiving with her mother. This is a holiday all about family and she is the only family I have, so without her, I’m all alone,” Jefferson explained.

Miss Black looked at the handsome younger man, her eyes flicking down his lean, strong body. “I can’t imagine you being alone, Jefferson,” she told him. “Unless, you wanted it that way.” And she smiled at him again.

“There are limits even to my powers, Miss Black,” he admitted. “But the day’s not over.  I’ve yet to get my introduction to Miss Ruby’s doctor friend.”

 

By one thirty everyone was gathered and Ruby gave a nod to Belle. 

“Let’s all take a moment and say grace,” Belle announced.  “Then we can get plates and find our way to the table.  We’re going to pretend this is a formal dinner party and I’ve put place cards where you’re to sit.”  She turned back to her father.

“Daddy, could you say the blessing?”

Rumple put down his drink, not exactly sure of the protocol for such an event _but pretty sure he shouldn’t be drinking through it._   Mr. French stood and, evidently taking the responsibility seriously, he began, “Lord, bless this food and this company that we may come together in peace and harmony and have a good meal and a good year.”

He paused and Jefferson spoke up, “Amen.” 

As typical for large groups, everyone was hesitant to begin, but Belle ushered Astrid and Roland, the sweet little son of Regina’s new beau, forward.  “Pregnant ladies and well-behaved children get to go first,” she told them.

“Thanks, I’m starving,” Astrid told her.

Regina followed Roland to help him load his plate, and then served herself.  Her new young man followed her.

And quickly other members of the group filed in, getting turkey, dressing and gravy and filling in with samples from the many green bean casseroles.

Rumple had held back, essentially being the host, waiting for the last spot.  He found himself standing behind his parents.

“How are you doing?” Malcolm asked him.

“Three sheets to the wind,” Rumple had answered him honestly.

“But you don’t show it.  Good genes for that,” Malcolm told him proudly.

His mother glared at them both, but didn’t say anything. 

“You are looking very good, Corby,” Malcolm addressed Miss Black.

“I take care of myself,” she replied shortly.

“It’s working. You look like a woman twenty years younger than what I know you to be.”

“You look twenty years older than you are,” she told him.

“It’s been tough on me.”

“I’m sure, after you lost your meal ticket,” she said.

“And was left with a baby to care for,” he began.

“Mother, Father,” Rumple interrupted. “Let’s not fight. It’s Thanksgiving and you two are my guests.”

They both turned on him.

“We’re Belle’s guests,” his mother corrected him.

“Yeah, if we’d asked you if we could come, you would have said you’d prefer it if we’d eat shit and die,” Malcolm told him.

“You’re my guests,” Rumple repeated keeping his temper, just keeping his temper. “I support Belle and if she saw fit to invite you, then it’s all right with me.”

“A supportive partner,” Malcolm turned back to Miss Black. “I wonder how that feels.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Miss Black shot back at him.

Belle, spotting a trouble spot, had come up to the threesome and put herself between Rumple and his parents.

“Malcolm, did I thank you for bringing the beer? And Miss Black,” she addressed Rumple’s mother, “I hope you have time to visit with my father.  He knows you’re paying the bills for his recovery and he wants to thank you personally.  He’s doing so much better, we hope we can start getting him out for a day more frequently.”

They both drew back from Belle’s cheeriness. “Thank you,” Malcolm told her warily.

“I’ll make a point to speak to your father,” Miss Black told her.

Belle didn’t take a breath. “The meal is coming along great. I’m already hearing that Granny’s turkey is just perfect and everyone is taking samples of the different green bean casseroles. If we do this another year, I guess I’ll have to tell people to bring a salad or casserole or bread or dessert so we’ll have more choices.”

“Oh god, you think we might do this another year?” Rumple asked her halfway under his breath.

“Maybe. Everyone, most everyone, seems to be enjoying themselves.  And we haven’t had a major disaster – I think as long as the turkey is okay, everyone is happy.”

“That and there’s plenty to drink,” Rumple said softly.  But he said to himself so Belle couldn’t hear, “but the day’s not over yet.”

The meal had begun. Everyone seemed all right. They were talking and laughing and joking around. 

It was Belle’s father who stood and began the whole round of thanks. “I want to express how thankful I am for all the good that has happened to me. A wonderful daughter,” he glanced at Belle. “Someone to be running my business,” he looked at Leroy. “My health returning,” he then toasted Miss Black, who seemed surprised and embarrassed when everyone at the table turned to look at her. “And all the people who have gotten close to my daughter and are making her life a good one,” and he nodded at Rumple. He sat down. _Belle was surprised at her father’s coherent moment. It was a good sign._

Leroy picked up on it and he stood next. “I’m most thankful for the opportunity to run a business. It’s going like gangbusters. And I’m even more thankful for this wonderful woman coming into my life,” and he toasted Astrid.

Astrid smiled and stood, knocking over her glass of water. She shared, “I’m so thankful that I took an enormous leap of faith, going against the advice of just about everybody – and I took a chance on this man, this man who has turned out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” and she leaned down and kissed her husband.

Ruby stood up. “I have to say, this has been a great year for me and I’m thankful for . . . well, just everything. Even though every one of you gets on my nerves from time to time – as I’m sure I get on yours.”

Granny could be heard to mutter, “Amen to that.”

“But,” Ruby continued, “I’m still so happy to have you all in my life.”

Granny took the next opportunity. “Well now, I was thinking I would be spending this Thanksgiving all by myself, that my granddaughter here would be off with one of her boyfriends and . . . well, there just wouldn’t be anyone who wanted to spend time with an old woman. It’s wonderful having all of you here and you need to know that there is a second turkey in the wings.”

Everyone applauded and Neal took the next opening. “I too am grateful for so many things. My business which is doing very well, my family, fractured and scattered though it may be, beginning the process of trying to heal itself,” and he looked at his mother, his father and his grandparents. “I’m especially thankful for an energetic, exciting, kind woman who has come into my life and who has blessed me with her love.” He looked down at Emma, who stood up and joined hands with him. “I wanted to share,” and he turned to his father, “Dad, Belle,” he began, then turned to his mother, “Mom, I had wanted to tell you all privately, but I can’t wait any longer. I proposed marriage to Emma and she . . .” Neal took a deep breath. “She’s accepted me.”

The group applauded. Someone, probably Jefferson, suggested a toast for the couple. 

Malcolm stood up next, “I can’t possibly top that, Neal. Congratulations, best wishes.”  He sighed, “I’m grateful for second chances.” He looked at Belle, “Thank you.” And then he sat down.

The group continued to share, Regina thanking Rumple for being her best client and her current boyfriend and his son for now being in her life, Zelena being thankful for her looks and her new boyfriend, and Mary Margaret and David both being grateful for each other and sharing their hopes that they might soon have their own baby on the way. Whale was grateful for his job and the opportunity to save lives.  Archie, Ruby’s current boyfriend, was grateful for all the kindness in the world. 

Jefferson was quiet and didn’t stand. He spoke softly, “Many of you know that I have a daughter, a really wonderful precious daughter. But I’ve made some mis-steps in my life and I can only see my daughter a couple of weekends a month. I’m trying to be better, make better decisions, be a better person – all for my daughter. I guess, I’m grateful for those friends who help me make those decisions, decisions that are hard for me,” he glanced up at Belle. “Maybe next year, Grace will be with me and we’ll be with a group of friends, like all of you.”

The group remained quiet for a moment and several people muttered supportive phrases to Jefferson. “We’re here for you, man.” “Anything we can do.” “Hope this works out.”

Milah stood. She was drunk. “Well, I’m just grateful for Killian and his play working out and living in New York and not here and getting on with my life.”

Killian rose and kissed his lover. “Milah, you’re the best.  I’m always grateful for you and your support.” 

Belle couldn’t stop herself. She leaned over to Rumple and whispered, _“And to my girlfriend’s ex-husband for saving my rear end.”_ Rumple didn’t answer but did squeeze her hand.

And now, only Rumple, Belle and Miss Black were left. The group, still quiet, turned to Miss Black, who had stood. “I struggle with gratitude,” she admitted. “I’ve always gotten everything I wanted growing up and I grew to expect that I should always get everything I wanted. It’s hard for me when I don’t get things.” She took a breath before she continued. “I’m starting to learn that perhaps _things_ aren’t what I want.”  She tossed her lustrous black hair over her shoulders. “I’m not grateful to be learning this. I liked it the way it was, when a new dress, new shoes, jewelry would make me happy. It’s very hard.” She licked her lips. She looked over at Regina who was sitting with little Roland in her lap. “Perhaps it is hardest for me, when I see a mother and a child together. I walked away from having that and never realized what it would cost me. I . . . it always makes me sad realizing, remembering, what I missed.” She stopped talking a moment and reached up to wipe a tear from her eye. Her voice was halting when she spoke again. “If . . . if I have anything to be truly grateful for, it is the young woman that has come into my son’s life, a young woman who has gone out of her way to be nice to me.”

And she sat down.

Belle stood then. “Thank you. Folks, I’m grateful for . . .  everything. I’m just grateful for everything and everybody. I have all these wonderful friends, some of whom are married or getting married, some who are just hanging out with each other. I’ve got my dad, thanks to Miss Black,” she beamed at the older woman, “and I’ve got the affection, the respect, and the love of the most wonderful man I’ve ever met.” And she leaned down and kissed Rumple lightly on the cheek.

Now it was Rumple’s turn. “I’m here to tell you, I didn’t want to do this,” he told everybody. “I just wanted to come home and be with my girlfriend, but all of you know Belle – some of you know her very well – and, of course, she wanted me to be nice to other people and connect with family.” He paused a moment before continuing, “She is this beautiful woman who fell in love with a selfish, ugly man. She makes me want to be the best man I can be and I try every day to be worthy of her.  Everything, right now everything good in my life, is because of her. I’m grateful for you, Belle,” he turned to her. “You’re everything to me. I love you.”

“Well, that’s just precious,” Milah could be heard to say.

“It is,” Emma agreed, cutting off Milah’s sarcasm at the knees. “It’s amazingly precious.”

The group broke up after the meal, people nibbling on different dishes and drinking, mostly drinking. 

Rumple had ended up in a corner with his mother. “That little speech you gave was pretty impressive.”

“You think people bought it?” she asked him.

“Oh hell yeah. I almost bought it.  However, the . . . the hand to the eye to wipe away the tear . . .  well, at that point, I knew it was all an act,” he told her.

“Too much?” she asked him.

“A little,” he had to agree.

The group was feeling pretty mellow by this point, both from the over-consumption of turkey but mostly from the over-consumption of various alcoholic beverages.  And so, the argument – the tussle -- was unexpected.  Leroy’s voice was heard and, of course, Malcolm’s.  Jefferson seemed to be involved and Corby Black’s sharp contralto was in the fray. After a moment, Rumple could hear even-tempered David, likely to try to calm things down and there was the ever-quiet voice of Archie Hopper, Ruby’s current beau, also trying to get things calm.  There was a scuffle.  Some dishes hit the floor. Things were getting knocked over, people were getting knocked over.  Astrid, pregnant, had been pulled over to the side by Belle, not wanting her, in particular, to get hurt. 

Granny, meanwhile, calmly went into the kitchen and came back out with a sawed-off shotgun.  She climbed onto a chair and from there onto one of the tables.  She fired a shot above the heads of the combatants. 

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas and January (and something really, really sad).


	19. More Important

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas and January (and something really, really sad)

_The Thanksgiving Dinner had begun reasonably well, except for a plethora of green bean casseroles.  There was plenty of turkey and liquor that seemed to keep people satisfied.  After sharing what they were grateful for, things began to get a little jagged and an argument broke out._

 

While voices were raised, Granny had calmly gone back into the kitchen and came back out with her sawed-off shotgun.  She climbed onto a chair and from there onto a table.  She fired a shot above the heads of the combatants.  Everyone separated. 

“Now, listen here,” Granny had everyone’s attention.  “We’ve been having such a good time.  We are not. going. to ruin. it. Everybody, get a fresh drink and sit. back. down.”

The combatants glanced at each other, then at Granny, then at Granny’s gun, then grabbed different things to drink.

“It may be ‘bout time for me to be heading out,” announced Leroy, gathering up Astrid and making his way out the door.  “Lovely time, great food,” he said to Belle, slipping away.

Milah and Killian stepped out next, followed by Zelena and her beau, then Regina with her new man and his son.

“Rats on a sinking ship,” murmured Rumple watching people slink out, some of them stopping long enough to grab some leftover turkey, some pie and whatever might be left from their casseroles, as well as some of the as yet unopened bottles of booze. 

Not everyone had made it out before the police pulled up. The dinner participants were, at the officer’s request, all gathered in the main restaurant to talk with the man. Granny greeted the officer familiarly.

“Had a complaint, Ms. Lucas,” the officer, a young, handsome black man, spoke wearily to her. “Firing off that shotgun again, are you?”

“Just a little celebratory shot, Officer Gus. No problems,” she assured the officer.

The officer glanced around and first nodded at Ruby, “Miss Lucas,” he greeted her.

“Hey-ay, Officer Gus.” Ruby gave him a big smile.

Officer Gus seemed to know David, likely from his job with the District Attorney’s office, and Whale, probably from the ER,“You two concur with that?” he asked them.

“Absolutely.” “Completely.” They both agreed.

“All right then,” the officer seemed to accept their complicity, but then turned to Granny. “I don’t want to have to come out here again because there’s been another complaint about you and that damn shotgun,” he began.

“I got a permit,” she protested.

“Yes, and you can have a gun for protection but not for firing at random,” the officer persisted. Then he lifted his head, “What’s that smell?” he asked.

Rumple, among others, lifted his head, to sniff the air. “Smells hot, like something’s on fire.”

Rumple stopped Belle from opening the door to the party room, first feeling the door. It was hot. Carefully, wrapping his hand with one of Granny’s dishtowels, he turned the door knob and peeked into the room. He was faced with flames. Something, likely one of the candles had gotten too close to some of the bottles of liquor. The linens and the greenery had caught the flames. One of the candles . . . or perhaps his dad sneaking out to smoke and not properly disposing the cigarette butt . . . had started the fire.  Rumple closed the door and stepped back.

“Call the fire department,” he directed the police officer. “Everyone’s out of that room, right?” and he began a head count. Belle’s dad, Belle, Neal and Emma, Granny, Ruby, both of Ruby’s gentlemen friends, Jefferson, Mary Margaret and David and David’s mother.  He knew Regina and Zelena with their respective entourages, as well as Leroy and Astrid, had already cleared out after Granny’s little scene. 

Where was his dad and his mother?

Belle pulled him aside.  “They left,” she told him.

“You sure?” he had to ask.

“Together,” she told him.

He stood still. _His parents had left together._ He shuddered.

The fire department had promptly arrived and had gone to work ushering everyone outside of the building.  Belle stood by Granny and Ruby during the conflagration. 

“This is awful,” Belle said.

“Oh honey, we’re insured,” Granny told her. “It shouldn’t reach into the kitchen where the expensive equipment is – there’s a firewall between the kitchen and the rest of the restaurant.”

“We probably shouldn’t have decorated the place with candles and dried greenery, but it looked so pretty,” Ruby remarked.

“Well, you don’t know that’s what started it,” Rumple told her. “Unfortunately, there were a lot of bottles of accelerant all around the room and once they started going up, the fire moved pretty fast.”

The fire department did their job efficiently and effectively. Ruby and Granny were allowed back in to survey the damage. 

The kitchen had been saved and, miraculously there was minimal smoke damage.  The seating area of the main restaurant was also in pretty good shape but, as to be expected, the back room, where the party had been, was a total loss.

Belle was obviously distressed, but Ruby leaned in and whispered, “Don’t let this out, but the insurance money we’ll get for this will help us make some updates to the restaurant that I’d been wanting to do.  There’s a big silver lining to all of this.”

As things calmed down, Mary Margaret, David and David’s mother thanked them all and left. Emma and Neal left next, after getting hugs from Belle.

Then Jefferson and Whale came up to Belle. “I probably have some things I need to get to,” Whale said.

“And I’ve offered to help him do them,” Jefferson said with a big smile. “Thanks Belle.  This was fun,” and he gave his hostess a quick kiss on the forehead.  Then the two stepped out.

**Aftermath**

Rumple and Belle had driven her father back to the assisted living facility and returned to his apartment. 

They were sitting in his darkened living room each sipping on a final glass of some dark, sweet red wine. 

“Got to say, this was a different Thanksgiving,” Rumple told her.

“I was expecting some sort of disaster, but usually it’s something with the turkey – something gets left in the bird, or the dog eats it or, at worst, it’s overdone or undercooked. I guess, I’d thought that everyone bringing green bean casserole was this year’s big disaster but . . .”

“Burning the place down tops that.”

Belle looked up at him. “You think the fire tops your parents getting back together?”

“Well, we don’t know that they’re together. My mother could have just got my dad to go with her as part of her insidious thirty-five step plan to string him up, suck out his life force and leave his shriveled remains in some alley.”

“Your mother . . . ?” Belle began.

He waited for her to finish.

“That little speech about missing being a mother and wiping away a tear. Was that for real?” she asked.

“Oh hell no, but I’m surprised you saw through her. She’s good, really good.”

“Do you think she just got your dad to go with her just so she can dump him?”

He shook his head, “She can’t have feelings for him.  She doesn’t have feelings.  The woman’s a psychopath.  But, of course, so is my father.”

“You really think that?” Belle asked him.

“I do. They’re two people who have only ever cared about themselves, are willing to do whatever they have to, so that they’ll be comfortable. They’re willing to lie, manipulate and use other people without a shred of remorse.” He finished off the wine. “I guess I should be happy my mother went off with my father. I was half afraid she would hit on Jefferson.”

Belle blinked and bit her lip. He caught the action.

“Oh, sweet baby Jesus. She hit on Jefferson?” he asked her.

Belle nodded. “He told me she’d given him her phone number. But he left with Dr. Whale, Ruby’s old boyfriend.”

Rumple sighed. “Yeah, well Jefferson swings both ways.”  He took another sip of whiskey. “My mother with Jefferson? That’s too scary to contemplate.  Listen, my Belle, for Christmas, promise me, it’ll just be you and me and your dad.”

“All right,” she agreed. “No Neal and Emma?”

“Okay, Neal and Emma are all right.”

“No Jefferson?” Belle’s innocent blue eyes had widened.  “But, he’s your best friend.”

“All right, Jefferson would be all right.” He agreed and then suddenly, he realized what she was doing – _getting him to agree to expand that initial close-knit guest list_.

“See how easy it is, once you get started,” she told him with a winsome smile.

 _She’d gotten him._ “All right, I do, but please, no matter how sad the story it, how desperate any of these other people sound, how pitiable their story is, you will say no,” he pleaded with her.  “You can use me as the bad guy. Tell them I hit the roof and wanted you all to my selfish, selfish, self.”

“All right,” she agreed. “But, you know, you’re aren’t really selfish,” she told him softly.

**Mother**

Rumple had met with his mother Monday (she’d informed him brusquely that the Thanksgiving Meal did not count) just before he set about to return to New York City.

“You look tired,” she told him.

“Working eighteen hour days with this damn play,” he told her.  “Being home, here, I thought I’d get caught up on my sleep . . . but,” he smiled at her, “there’s been Belle.”

His mother leaned back and looked closely at him.  “It’s love, isn’t it?” she asked him.  “Real love, not infatuation or lust?”

“I think so.  I’m sure so,” told her.

“Are you going to propose?”

He hesitated.  “I’m thinking about it.  Maybe, at Christmas, you know, maybe I’ll offer her a ring.”

“So, you sound unsure.”

He hesitated again.  “I . . . I don’t know if she wants that kind of relationship with me.  I’m so much older than she is and . . . lotsa baggage . . . and I . . . I don’t have the best track record for sustained relationships.” 

“Oh,” his mother said noncommittally. 

“What? You think I should ask her?”

She shrugged.  “You have the ring?”

He paused but then reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a small blue box. “I got this at some store on Fifth Avenue in New York. Some of the women in the play recommended the place.”

“Tiffany’s?” his mother clarified.

“I guess.” He handed the box over to his mother who examined the ring with an experienced eye.

“This is beautiful,” she confirmed for him. “I like the little touch of sapphires. They match her eyes.”

“You think I should ask her to marry me?” he really wanted to know. He wasn’t sure.

“I don’t know. Maybe she’s happy with the . . . uh. . . I assume you’re banging her like a drum on a regular basis?”

He sat a moment.  “Crossed a line there, Mother.”

She leaned in, “Maybe she does want more. A lot of women want more than just sex, even if it’s great sex.” 

He pocketed the ring and turned on his mother, “Now, Mother, your turn. What is going on between you and Father.”

Miss Black nearly blushed. “Wh . . . why would you . . . think there is anything . . .  going on between me and your father?” she stammered.

“Because Belle saw you two leave the Thanksgiving Fire together. 

“I was just . . .  we thought . . . I was going to . . . .” she sighed. “It’s all that young woman’s fault,” she snapped.

“Belle’s?” Rumple wasn’t sure.

“Yes. She is always so nice to everyone and talks about forgiveness and moving on and . . .  all that crap and . . . well,” his mother looked up at him. “Malcolm and I started talking and . . . well, one thing led to another and . . .”

“What?”

There was no answer.

“Mother, what? What is going on between you two?”

“He might be moving in with me,” she confessed. 

“You know you can’t trust him. He’s working a scam,” Rumple warned her.

“That’s no way to talk about your father,” his mother admonished him.

“Hell, if it makes you feel any better, I’d tell him the same thing about you!” He pushed back from the table. “The thought of you two getting together suggests . . .” he considered the possibilities, “The Apocalypse.”

“Oh, grow up, Rumple. Don’t be so dramatic. It’s just sex,” she rolled her eyes. “It’s not like we’re talking about getting married or anything.”

“Oh please, I don’t want to hear about my parents’ sex life.”

“Well, why not? It bodes well for you that, at his age, your father is still a pile-driving stevedore twixt the sheets.”

Rumple closed his eyes and shook his head – _no, the image would not go away._ He finished his drink and signaled for another one. 

As he took a big swig of his new drink, his mother coyly asked him, “But you must tell me dearie, marriage or no, are we to expect any little new Stiltskins in the near future?”

Rumple sprayed his drink.

 

**Life Continues to Happen**

Rumple remained tied up in New York City, but had shared with Belle that the play was finally moving along and an opening date, in early February, had been scheduled. Astrid and Leroy’s baby was due in March.  Mary Margaret and David had announced they were expecting, sometime in July.  Neal and Emma had made a date in early June for their wedding.  They had decided to keep things small for the ceremony with only Rumple and Belle in attendance, but they wanted to have a big reception in Granny’s spanking new updated Diner. Belle’s father was doing well enough to have outings once a week and had taken to ‘working’ in his old florist’s shop.  He was still able to put together extraordinary bouquets, still remembering what different flowers represented and often Leroy would get his help when anyone had a special request.

Christmas was, as Rumple had requested, a quiet affair, a meal and short gift exchange (Belle had knitted the man a Penny Straker Aran sweater and he had gotten her a first edition Jane Austin).  Back in their apartment, Rumple again had Belle sit for him, an evocative pose involving a little (fake) white fur and a (real) red silk ribbon.  It was sultry and sexy _and not one for public display._ He was surprised that each painting with her seemed even better than the last one. Usually by this time in a relationship, he was beginning to get bored and had begun to look for a way out – but with Belle, it was better and better each and every day.

This, he knew, this was True Love. Whatever he had felt before, was a pale, anemic shadow of what he was feeling with Belle. He often found himself saying the words.  She would grin and kiss him and repeat the words to him.

But he remained afraid, too afraid to take the next step. He’d taken the ring out several times, but just couldn’t bring himself to ask her to marry him.

In his deepest heart, Rumple didn’t feel she would accept a proposal of marriage.  All the differences, all the obstacles, all his character weaknesses would dance in his head and he just couldn’t go any further. He would wait, he thought. Perhaps, after he was finished with this damn play. That would be a good time. Or perhaps, after she got her degree.  That could work. Or perhaps after Neal and Emma got married. Or maybe after the Art Exhibit in April. Perhaps then. Yes, then.

Or not.

**February Begins**

Belle had finished her first class for the mid-winter term and was about to start on her most intense, three-course semester, beginning in February. Rumple had invited her up to New York for the opening night falling on Friday, just before her classes began on the next Wednesday.

 _Jurgen_ had become the most anticipated play of the season. It was widely known that Rumson Stiltskin had been involved with the production and bits and pieces of his music had leaked out. People were excited. The Sorcerer, as he’d been known on Broadway years ago, had returned. 

Rumple wasn’t excited. He felt that the more people were expecting, the further he had to fall when he didn’t meet those expectations. And he didn’t think it was that good.  Of course, he never felt his work was that good. 

Milah, Killian, the actors involved, they were all telling him how amazing his work was. Yeah, they would say that. He opted instead to talk with the stage crew. These were people who were less emotionally enmeshed in the production.  But they too, they were telling him that the work was great, one of them described it as “magical.”

Belle had promised to come. She’d have to fly up, leaving early morning Friday and she would stay through Tuesday night, when she’d be flying back. She was excited. She’d see Rumple again and that always stirred her blood. She’d get to go to New York. She’d attend a Broadway Premiere. Very exciting stuff.

She was packing, very unsure of taking her distinctive wardrobe north.  She knew her Asheville style would work in Austin, Texas, or Portland, Oregon and a myriad of other cities that prided themselves on their ‘weirdness,’ but she didn’t know how it would work in a sophisticated, cosmopolitan city like New York. But then, she wasn’t going to change who she was for a city.  She did pack the gold dress and the blue one because she knew there would be some elegant places that Rumple would want to take her.

Jefferson was taking her to the airport and helped her out with her luggage. 

“He’s going to want to know,” Belle told him on their drive out. _Jefferson knew she was asking about himself and Rumple’s mother._

Jefferson shook his head. “I considered it. I’ll admit that. She’s a fantastic looking woman for any age. But, fortunately, I didn’t have to make a decision. She and Malcolm are apparently reconciled and she’s no longer looking for any extra curricula activity.”

“Really! She and Malcolm! I’m not sure if I’m happy or . . . confused,” Belle admitted.

They had pulled into parking at the little airport and Jefferson was helping her get out her single suitcase when Belle got a phone call.

Jefferson didn’t take much note until he saw Belle standing very still, her face drained of color.

“Belle, what’s wrong?” he asked immediately.

“My father,” she began.

“Another heart attack?” Jefferson asked.  He was well aware of the health difficulties Maurice French was dealing with.

Belle nodded. “They’ve taken him to Mission Hospital.”

 

The rest of the day was blur for Belle.  Jefferson had asked how he could help and Belle first said to let the airport know her seat was available. He quickly took care of this. 

Belle wasn’t crying; she was too numb. _Her father had been doing so well. They were taking him out of the facility at least once, often twice a week. He was making sense when he talked. He was exercising and eating well. She had thought they had turned a corner and she might be able to have her father back at some point._

“Can you let Ruby know?” she asked Jefferson. “She can let all my other friends know.”

He made the call. “Do you want me to call Rumple?” he asked.

“No, I’ll do that. I need to go ahead and do that. I don’t want him waiting for me.”

Belle made the call.

“Hello Belle, darling.” She heard Rumple’s voice against a background of raucous noise.  “It’s chaos here. Typical opening night jitters.”

She couldn’t bring herself to speak.

He picked up on the silence. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“My daddy,” she began.

“Belle, what happened?”

“He’s had another heart attack. I’m on my way to the hospital. Jefferson’s driving me.”

“Oh sweetheart. I’m so sorry. I thought he was doing so much better. What can I do?”

“You . . . you can stay there and take care of the opening of your play. I’ll keep you posted as to what’s happening here,” she told him.

“Of course,” he answered. “Belle,” he added before he hung up.  “You know if there’s anything . . .”

“Yes, I know, darling,” she answered him. 

Jefferson had taken her on to the hospital and they located her father in ICU.  Within an hour that Ruby had joined them, then Emma and finally, Archie came in.  They were getting regular updates, but essentially, there had been no change in how he was doing.

Belle shared with them what she had learned from Miss Gorim, the director of the nursing facility. 

“He’d been doing his usual routine. He hadn’t complained. He’d come to breakfast and had then gone back to his room. I believe he usually used this time for some reading. He had come out for their morning exercise program at ten o’clock. It’s a very gentle gi gong program, to help keep the patients moving and stretching. Dad was participating and, according to the instructor, when they were about begin the lesson, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and  . . . he just crumpled. They called the nurse immediately, but they weren’t revive him. His color wasn’t good and his breathing wasn’t right. The nurse called 911 and the ambulance brought him here.”

Ruby was holding her hand. “I know this offers only the smallest of comforts, but it doesn’t seem as if he suffered in any way.”

Belle nodded. “Thank you. It does help. It sounds like he was enjoying what he was doing.” Belle took a drink of the flat hospital coffee Jefferson had bought for her.

“They told me that they thought of my father as one of their success stories, did you know? When he came there, he was nearly non-coherent, unable to walk the length of the hallway, struggling with his ADL’s, and, sometimes, he was just plain unpleasant. After he’d been here a while, he had turned into one of those people who was in there encouraging some of other clients. He was so proud of what he had accomplished. It hadn’t been easy for him, but he had worked hard.”

Her friends had been with for three hours when the news came. Dr. Whale asked for Belle to come back with him. She was standing by her father’s bed, holding his hand, watching the occasional flicker of telemetry when things flat-lined.

Dr. Whale glanced at the wall clock. “One eleven,” he murmured. 

Maurice French had passed without regaining consciousness.

Dr. Whale spoke gently, “We did everything we could but we weren’t able to bring revive him. He just kept slipping away. It was a peaceful ending, Belle. He wasn’t in any pain.”

Belle knew she was crying. She couldn’t help herself. “Now, he’s with momma.”

“I’m so very sorry, Belle.”

“I guess. . . there will be some things to do, now?” she asked, unsure of herself.

“They can wait until tomorrow.  Why don’t you get one of your friends to take you home tonight? The nursing home already gave us information on what funeral home he wanted and they will be contacting you tomorrow.”

He had walked her back out to the waiting room and her friends immediately surmised what had happened. Ruby was hugging her. “Belle, I’m so sorry.”

Jefferson spoke kindly to her. “Belle, there’s going to be a lot of things to take care of, but tonight, why don’t you let Ruby and Emma take you home. I can come by tomorrow morning and help you with . . . what needs to be done.”

Belle nodded,” That’s what Dr. Whale had suggested.” She was numb, the pain overwhelming her. She didn’t remember the ride back to her apartment, going up the stairs on stepping inside.

Ruby turned on the light and Emma set her down on the sofa. 

“I was supposed to be in New York,” Belle began talking. “Rumple’s play was opening tonight. I’d almost got on the plane when the call came.”

“I never knew my parents,” Emma told her.  “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I’m just so, so sorry.” 

“I knew my parents, but I was still very little when they died,” Ruby told her. “Granny’s been the only parent I’ve ever known and I . . . I don’t know what I’ll do when she . . . she passes.”

Belle was about to share more when the two women heard the front door unlock.

It was Rumple, dressed in an elegant black tuxedo. His eyes locked with Belle as if he wasn’t quite sure of his reception. Belle was stunned, but then she started to cry and got up to rush over to him. He enveloped her in his arms and just hugged her.

“Well,” Ruby stood and spoke to Emma, “I think we need to be heading on.”

Rumple glanced up at Ruby and Emma and mouthed, “Thank you.” The two women quietly left Rumple and Belle together still hugged up.

“Why did you come?” Belle asked him, wiping her nose on the rich red silk shirt he wore under the formal attire. “You were supposed to be in New York at your play. It’s opening night.”

“It’s not my play,” he corrected her. “It will go on fine without me. And I thought you might need me here more than I needed to be there.”

“I won’t tell you that it’s not good to see you. But I had told you not to come.”

He gave her his most gentle smile, "I know."

“But you came anyway.”  Belle sniffed, "You didn’t have to, you know. I completely would have understood if you'd wanted to stay in New York for your play.”

“It’s not my play,” he corrected her. “It’s Jones’s. And . . . this is more important --  you’re more important."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT: Belle begins to deal with all the changes and life goes on.  
> Belle decides to surprise Rumple at the Gallery showing.


	20. The End of Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle begins to deal with all the changes and life goes on.   
> Belle decides to surprise Rumple at the Gallery showing.

_After Granny resolves an altercation with her shotgun diplomacy, the police arrive and a fire is discovered.  Everyone is safe but the (insured) party room is a loss.  Belle notes that Malcolm Stiltskin and Corby Black, Rumple’s parents, leave the celebration together.  Rumple contemplates proposing to Belle and has taken to carrying an engagement ring in his pocket but can’t quite bring himself to propose.  On the big Opening Night for the play, Belle gets a call that her father has had another heart attack and she is able to be with him when he passes quietly.  Her friends take her back to the apartment and later, Rumple arrives unexpectedly._

There was a fresh flood of tears and Belle just collapsed into him. He held her up for a very long moment.  Slowly he was able to maneuver her back to the bedroom. He got her talking about the circumstances of her father’s death and slowly steered into some of her most pleasant memories of her father. She talked and talked and he just listened and held onto her. She cried sometimes and laughed a couple of times. 

“You’re the best boyfriend ever, you know that,” she told him sleepily. It was about two in the morning.

“Well, I’ve got the best girlfriend, so it’s easy,” he told her. 

She snuggled against him and he felt that she had drifted off. He eased himself away from her and gently removed her shoes and socks and her topmost little dress, leaving her in her undergarments and frilly slip. He then undressed himself, removing his shoes and socks, then taking off and hanging up his pricey tuxedo jacket and his pants. He took off his silk dress shirt and laid it on the back of a chair. Before joining Belle on the bed, he rummaged in the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. Yes, there was a small blue box inside the jacket. He glanced at Belle, wanting to make sure she was asleep. He opened the box to look over the brilliant diamond and sapphire engagement ring. He’d worked with the jeweler to design the Art Deco ring – something as sweet and as unique as the woman he wanted to wear it. 

He had finally decided, had planned, after the play’s opening, to give it to her, to ask her to marry him. But now, well now, was certainly not the right time. He closed the box and put it back in his jacket pocket.

**Texts**

Belle woke up and realized several things. It was mid-morning the next day and she had been hearing an odd sound now over and over and over throughout the night. It was Rumple’s cell phone, notifying him of texts coming in. 

She stretched and then nestled back up against the man’s warm body. He always smelled so nice to her and she knew that it wasn’t from any particular soap or cologne – it was just how he smelt, spicy and something else, distinctly his own. It felt . . . _comfortable._

“Uhhh,” he moaned and turned into her, pulling her up against him, her back to his chest. “Damn, you smell good,” he told her.

“So do you,” she had to tell him. She smiled for a moment, but then, she remembered, she remembered what had happened. 

Her father had died.

And the man she loved had left something very important to come home to comfort her.

“Your phone has been dinging all night,” she told him, relishing the feel of his face, stubble and all, rubbing up against her neck. 

“Shit, I meant to turn the damn thing off.”

“Shall we see what all the messages are about?” she asked him.

“They can wait.” She turned and saw his eyes, still a little sleepy, but dark and smouldering.

“Okay,” she told him and turned herself around to face him. He wasn’t sure, she could tell he wasn’t sure whether or not she wanted him – at this moment – like this -- but she moved into him, kissing him, running her hands down his arms. She whispered, “Yes. Please.”

It was a slow, gentle love-making. He spent much of his time kissing her, telling her how beautiful she was, how much, oh, how much he loved her. This was so different from their frantic coupling in the hallway at Thanksgiving. This was a joining of desires, of minds, and feelings. This was for comfort, to let her know she had a place with him, could come to him for understanding. He had placed her under himself knowing that she favored this position and lifted her legs so that his penetration was complete and so, so satisfying for the both of them. Their eyes were locked and he watched her when she clasped him and, when her pupils dilated to fill the clear blue of her eyes, he allowed himself to release. 

He rolled off of her and they lay together for a while, just holding on to each other. 

“Thank you,” she told him. “I think, I really needed just what you gave me. I needed to know . . . I wasn’t alone.”

“Not now. Not ever,” he promised her. 

Belle smiled at him and reached for his phone. “Come on here. You’ve got to be dying to find out the reviews.” She handed him the phone.

He sighed. “Mixed feelings. Let me see.” And he switched it on and began to scroll down.

He began reading pieces of the comments to Belle.  “The best play on Broadway.”  “Stiltskin has not lost his touch.” “The Sorcerer is back.”  “A must-see for the music, if nothing else.”  “Mesmerizing, fascinating and engrossing -- extraordinary music.”  “Funny, sad and up-lifting.” 

He finished scanning the comments. “Sounds like people liked it.” He put the phone aside.

“Liked it?! Sounds like they loved it!” Belle told him. “Congratulations. And I’m sorry you weren’t there.”

“It just adds to my aura as a difficult artist,” he told her, shrugging it off. 

**Gathering**

Rumple stood by her during the funeral and the gathering of her friends that followed.  He was surprised to see his mother in attendance.

“Mother?” he approached her.

“Hello, Son,” Miss Black greeted him. “Haven’t heard from you in a while. Understand you have another hit Broadway play.”

“Seems to be going that way,” he told her. “I didn’t think attending funerals was your style.”

“Belle and I have an . . . understanding,” she told him. 

He must have looked at her with some confusion because she explained, “Belle keeps me up on what’s going on with you. She seems to think that as your mother, I have a legitimate interest in your life.”

“She’s just being nice,” he told her. “She’s that way with everyone.”

“Well, no one else is that way with me,” his mother told him.

“And why do you think that is?” he asked.

“Probably because I’m a stone-cold bitch,” she answered. “And I am, but I know there are certain people that are worth cultivating. My relationship with Miss French is _quid pro quo_. She keeps up her end and I keep my end. Of course, now that her father is dead, I’m not sure what I can offer her.”

“Ah, you’re here then to feign sympathy because you think she will drop your sorry arse now that you aren’t financing her dad’s recovery,” he surmised.

She didn’t answer right away. “Yeah,” she admitted finally.

“Mother,” he said, considering carefully what he said next. “Belle’s not like that. She’s genuinely nice. She does what she thinks is the right thing to do, whether or not she will get a pay-off or applause or anything.”

Corby was clearly puzzled. “It’s difficult being friends with someone like that. They might ask me for a favor  . . . well, anytime . . . and I’d be expected to come through – just . . . because we’re friends.” She shook her head, “Is there any alcohol at this get-together?”

“No, Mother,” Rumple explained wearily.  “Not here at the church. But we are all coming back to my apartment and planning to get shit-faced there, if you want to stick around for the wake.”

Corby nodded. She regarded her son closely. She didn’t know him well – she didn’t know him hardly at all. He was brilliant, talented and complex – in many ways very much like herself.  “I don’t suppose I can get away with smoking here either?”

Rumple shook his head.

“Yeah well, death is hard.” She looked at her son again, “Still thinking of asking Miss French to marry you?”

He nodded. “Yes, but I have to pick the right time and . . . well, this isn’t the right time.”

“I guess not,” she agreed.

“Are you still sleeping with my father?” he asked her.

“Occasionally,” she replied. “He still has a certain charm and he can be amusing at times. And he continues to be very satisfactory as a lover. He’s learned stuff since we were together when we were teenagers – so there’s stamina and a repertoire. I really hope you inherited those things from him – you’re going to need it with a young wife.”

Rumple winced. _This was not a comfortable conversation for him to have with his mother._

“You probably do need to get around to proposing at some point. There’s always the possibility that she’s the kind of girl who expects marriage and she’ll drop you and move on if you lollygag too long.”

“But what if it’s too soon or she feels I’m smothering her or . . .”

“Communication,” his mother interrupted him. “I’ve never had it in a relationship, but I understand talking with each other is better than just making suppositions. So she says ‘no,’ at least, you’ll know where things stand. But she could say,’yes.’”

He stood back and looked at his mother. “Another sign of the End of Days. My mother is giving me good advice.”

She looked back at him. “You do know that you are my sole heir. If you end up marrying this girl, please have the sense to get an ironclad pre-nup.”

“Ah, now, there’s my mother again – everything is back to normal.  Of course, Mother,” he replied. “I’m sure you’d be surprised to find that Belle would be the one to insist on a pre-nup.”

Corby shook her head again, obviously struggling to understand Belle French, “So difficult.”

**Gallery**

After the funeral, after the opening of the play, Rumple still found himself going back and forth between New York and Asheville.  He hadn’t wanted to leave Belle alone but now he was having to prepare for the Gallery Exhibit Regina was putting together. Belle had insisted she was managing, doing as well as could be expected.  She had thrown her energies into her school work, knowing that this was what her parents would have wanted. 

As the exhibit opening date approached, Rumple was grousing about having to spend more and more time in New York. Belle had promised she would come to New York, but the last few weeks of her course work kept her busy with tests and papers and it just never quite happened -- not until Belle’s Spring Break at the beginning of April. The exhibit was to open just as her Break started. Belle had a plan and packed a bag, anxious to re-connect with Rumple.

She had gotten a train ticket and her idea was to surprise Rumple. She had called Milah with her plan and Milah, as promised, met her at the station and took her directly to the Gallery.  It was in a relatively new gallery in upscale Chelsea on West 22nd Street. 

“He did send you a ticket, right?” Milah asked, as they pulled up to the Gallery.

“Ticket?” Belle asked.

“Yeah, there was an enormous amount of interest in this showing, especially after _Jurgen_ was such a success, so the Gallery sold First Night Tickets for the showing. If you don’t have a ticket, you might not be able to get in.”

Belle was stumped. She didn’t have a ticket. Rumple didn’t even know she was going to be there. Ever the optimist, she replied to Milah, “Well, I guess, I hope, that he has phone on him and can get me in.”

Milah wasn’t so sure. “He’s a bit careless with his cell. Listen, Belle, if you can’t get in, call Uber and get a ride to my place. You can stay with Killian and me until we can get in touch with Rumple.”  Milah was sporting a new gold ring on her left hand. 

“Thanks.”

“And Belle . . .” Milah began. “I . . . I think I need to thank you for encouraging Rumple with Killian’s play. If he hadn’t stepped in, it would have been a disaster, I just know it.”

“Oh, I didn’t do or say much. He was already thinking about getting back into his music.”

“No. I know Rumple. I was married to him. He’s moody and capricious and he can be downright difficult. There’s a lot he starts that he doesn’t finish and he hates New York City. But somehow, you’ve gotten him to finish things and even to stay here for a little while, while it’s best for his career. And it is you, no matter what you think, what you say, it’s you. You’ve changed him, for the better. If nothing else, the man is no longer drinking himself into an early grave. Thank you. You’ve made it possible for me to have the life I wanted.”

“Well . . .” Belle was embarrassed. “I just did what I thought was the right thing to do.” 

“I’ll get your luggage up to his apartment. I know the concierge in his hotel,” Milah told her as a final remark as she dropped Belle off in front of the Gallery.

Belle watched Milah drive off. She felt a cold wind hit her as she stood on the street, and hugged her thin coat to herself – it hadn’t been this cold in Asheville when she’d left.  Another gust hit her -- _quite a bit chilly for April, she thought._ She turned back to the Gallery. It seemed large, like the city itself, really large. The buildings were large, the sounds were large, even the smells were large. Not a synesthesic herself, she had some small sense of what Rumple must feel in this place – it was overwhelming. She hoped that she would find Rumple, and soon. She approached the Gallery. There was a very long line of people waiting. 

_Oh dear. She was definitely going to have some problems getting in. She didn’t think telling the doorman that she was a friend of the artist would get her very far._

She stood for a moment, debating what to do when she heard someone call her name, “Belle?”

She turned. She didn’t know the person. Another person came up, “Oh my God, it’s Belle.”

“It is you, isn’t it?” yet another person asked her.

“Everybody, it’s Belle! The woman in the paintings! My God, you’re even more gorgeous in person.”

“What are you doing here?”

Belle looked at all the people. Everyone was staring at her, staring at her like they knew her. She swallowed. “I was hoping to get in and see Ru . . . Mr. Stiltskin. But he didn’t know I was coming and I don’t have a ticket,” she explained.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have to have a ticket, my dear,” a woman told her.  “You should be the guest of honor.”

And Belle found herself ushered to the head of the line where everyone introduced her to the ticket-taker who looked at her closely. 

“You are the woman that’s in those paintings, aren’t you?” he asked her.

“I guess. I know he did a lot of pictures of me and his manager was going to have them put on exhibit.”

“Hold on a second,” the ticket-taker said and then spoke through a walkie-talkie. It took a moment and then he nodded, “Sure, you can come on through.”

Belle turned and smiled at the crowd of people who had helped her. “You all are so nice. Thank you.”

Belle, dressed in her blue round-toed shoes with their little bows and her fluffy pink and blue-flowered dress slowly entered the room of glittering people.  She was clearly not dressed appropriately for this crowd – all the men wore tuxedos and the women were in tight-fitting sparkling gowns. 

Yet the crowd parted for her and a murmur began to build as she timidly made her way into the room. 

_Oh, my, there was Young Woman with a Book and The Mindful Cook and there was one of her sleeping – she didn’t remember that one.  All of these, many of the pictures, were already marked Sold._

People were beginning to point to her, much like those people outside. 

A man stepped forth. “Would you mind? I just bought this painting and would love to get a picture of you standing next to it.”

Belle nodded and stood next to portrait – the first one he had painted when she’d agreed to be a model for him.

She got pulled aside several more times as she made her way through the crowd. She was astonished at the number of paintings, drawings, sketches and what have you, he had completed of her. And people wanted her picture, even her signature, by their purchases.

She was a bit surprised -- stunned. She had known that the pictures were of her but she’d had no idea – there were so many of them. 

As she moved on through the room, she spotted him. He was standing dressed in jeans and long-sleeved tee with his back to her, but she’d recognize that fantastic rear end anywhere.  She approached him. He was engaged in conversation with a gorgeous woman – Belle thought she recognized the woman, wasn’t she an actress?

The woman looked at her and there was that same recognition that Belle had seen from the people outside and those inside the Gallery. 

Rumple was still talking animatedly, when the woman smiled at him and gently turned him around. He immediately saw Belle and froze for just a moment.

Then he laughed and came towards her, “Belle, my Belle. I had no idea.” And he gathered her up into his arms and kissed her right out in front of everybody. Belle was so wrapped up in the welcome of his kiss that she was deaf and blind to what else was happening around her, but there did seem to be a dull roar growing and a sense of flashing lights all around her.

When he pulled back, she found she had relaxed, nearly collapsing into his arms. There was also the sound of applause coming from the Gallery and Belle realized the guests were clapping for her and Rumple.

“They recognize you,” he told her.

“It’s strange. People on the street knew who I was,” she whispered back to him.

“Yeah, this showing is a big success.” He took her back to the side of the room. “I wasn’t expecting you. I mean, of course, you’re welcome, but . . . why are you here now?”

“Spring Break. I knew you were too busy to get down and I decided I wanted to see you. I wanted to be with you for this opening and I’m sorry I didn’t quite make it to be here when the doors opened.”

“Perhaps making a dramatic entrance worked out even better. People like meeting the model.”

She leaned into him. “You don’t have those pictures you did of me . . . the ones I wasn’t wearing . . . anything . . . they’re not here, are they?”  She was looking around a bit nervous that she might see herself in the altogether.

“Oh, my dear, no. That first picture and the one we did together at Christmas are scheduled to be in special places in our bedroom. They’re not for prying eyes.” Then he added with a wicked grin, “Not until you’re eighty and you can impress people with what a babe you were back in the day.”

“I’m glad of that. It was all right for me to pose for you, but for anyone else to see it . . .” Belle winced. She looked around, “So this is going . . . okay?” she asked.

“It’s very successful. There’s a line of people to see the work and I’ve sold more than half the pictures after just a few hours. Not bad for a living artist. One of the reviewers named this my Belle Epoque, telling me that this is the best work he’s seen from me – mature, insightful, and very beautiful. I told him that it wasn’t me, it was my model.”

Belle blushed, “You make me look sooo much better than I really do,” she told him.

Suddenly serious, he corrected her, “No, no, I don’t.  At best, I’m getting a glancing, fleeting image of what you really look like.”

They shared a moment but the crowds around them, the lights, the noises, brought them back. 

“Belle, I have to be here a while longer. Would you want to stay or go back to the hotel where I’m staying?” he asked.

“Oh, I’d like to stay with you . . . if . . . if that isn’t going to be a problem?” she answered immediately.

“Staying is fine, but I warn you, more of these people are going to want to meet you than me,” he told her.

And he was quite correct. Belle quickly found herself surrounded. People who bought any of Rumple’s work also wanted her to sign it and most wanted a selfie with her.  Photographers hovered around snapping her picture nearly continuously.

_Well, Regina had warned her that the showing would put her in the public eye, but she really had had no idea. She felt like the latest toy that had been handed over to the cat. She smiled, she nodded, she posed. It was becoming stressful and she was more than glad when the crowd thinned out and Rumple signaled the event was at an end._

“How do you stand it?” she asked him. “I felt like I was in a fishbowl and the cat was watching me.”

“Yeah, it is a bit like that,” he agreed. “I handle it because I don’t care what any of these people think, but I suspect that’s never going to be your attitude. Let’s get something to eat.  I know some little bistros that are open late. We’ll stop at Fat Angels and get a bite.”

“Fat Angels?” she asked him.

“Shhh,” he told her. “It’s not very well known – yet -- so I can go there and not be mobbed. They have great coffee and wine and they should be able to feed us.”

Belle followed him out into the disturbingly cold night – the temperature had dropped even from what it had been when she’d first arrived. They ended up at a small hole-in-the-wall coffee and wine bar. Rumple greeted Tony, the proprietor, who was pleased to see Rumple and herded them toward a table in the back. It was dark and secluded.

“Someone published that they had seen you here on some Facebook site.  My business has tripled,” Tony told them. 

“Good for you, but that means I probably only have a few more times to come here before it gets too cloying,” Rumple told Tony.  “And I hate that, I really like your dirty chai.”

“One of those for you tonight?” Tony asked.

“Absolutely. Belle, did you want coffee or wine?” he asked her.

“Water?” she suggested.

> “No,” Rumple cautioned her. “If any photographers see you in a coffee and wine bar drinking water, they’ll assume you’re pregnant.”
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT: Belle discovers New York City and Rumple (finally) makes his move.


	21. Restraints or a Blindfold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle discovers New York City and Rumple (finally) makes his move.

_With Rumple’s support and by throwing herself into her school work, Belle has managed the first difficult weeks following her father’s death.  It is now early April. It’s Spring Break for Belle and the Gallery opening for Rumple. Belle makes an unscheduled trip to New York and surprises Rumple at the Gallery where she is readily recognized as Rumple’s model. After an exhaustive evening, he takes her to a little coffee and wine bar where she has ordered water._

 

“If any photographers see you in a coffee and wine bar drinking water, they’ll assume you’re pregnant.” He abruptly realized what he’d said.  “You aren’t pregnant, are you?” he asked in a whisper.  _Now that was an enticing thought.  This beautiful woman – his child._

“Oh lord, no,” she answered quickly.  “I just wanted water because, well, I’m not like you. Caffeine keeps me awake and wine can make me too sleepy.”

_Rumple squelched what he recognized was a twinge of disappoint._

“De-caf?” Tony suggested.

Belle nodded, “I guess.”

And they were left alone for a moment.

“You coming here, at this moment, is such a terrific surprise,” Rumple told her.  “I was figuring it would be at least a week before I would be able to see you again.  I’ve got so much to show you, places I want you to see, things to do.”

Belle smiled, “And here I just wanted to spend time with you in the hotel room.”

Rumple looked at her a moment and then gave her his slow smile, “That too.”

**The List**

He’d made a list.  He was proud of making a list.  He didn’t normally make lists, so it was monumentally out of character. It was a Belle-thing to make lists, but he so wanted Belle to have some idea of what there was to do.

She looked it over during breakfast which they shared in the hotel room.

“Well, definitely, your play. That is possible, isn’t it? I mean, I heard it was sold out for months and months and scalpers were asking two thousand for a single ticket,” she told him.

“Three thousand,” he corrected her. “It’s possible, I have some connections, you know.  How would you feel about sitting in the orchestra pit?  -- if that’s a problem we can sit up in the booth,” he told her.

“Wow, either would be fine.”

“Oh yeah, do you know who any of these people are?” he tossed a sheet in front of her with a couple of names on it – names of current female recording artists. He went on, “They both called wanting permission to cover some of the songs.”

Belle gasped, “These ladies are very well known singers. If they want to cover your songs, you’ll want to run it through Regina, so you can get your best deal.”

“That’s what I thought. I’d already passed it on to Regina and her head exploded. I didn’t know what the big deal was.”

“Ohh,” Belle told him.  “It’s a pretty big deal.  Now, let’s see what else is on this list.” It was a long list. “You know I only have seven days and have to get back to the airport by six to catch a flight back.” 

“So, we’ll get started on the list. It’s everything I could think of to do in New York. . .  well, it’s stuff I like to do.”

“There seem to be a lot of walking food tours,” Belle noted. 

“I like to eat, and each area has its own special cuisine,” he told her. “You’ll want to sample them all.”

“East Side, West Side, Soho, Harlem, Greenwich, wow, this list goes on and on,” Belle told him. “And there are no end of horse and carriage rides we could go on – that sounds nice.  But, of course, I want to go to the Metropolitan and the Guggenheim museums.”

“Thought you might,” Rumple told her.  “And I’ll arrange for a couple of those food tours and a carriage ride.”  He had something else in mind for the carriage ride. He was still trying to muster up his courage.

**Before Belle was Born**

Belle realized almost immediately that she would never get used to the photographers. They would wait outside of the hotel room and follow them everywhere.  Belle assumed they were following Rumple, but he had laughed when she said this and he’d assured her that she was the one the photographers were following. 

“You are so much more photogenic than I am,” he told her as they stepped away from the hotel in the early evening. “They are very interested in the woman who has taken down the Beast of Broadway, the Monster of Media or whatever _nom du jour_ they’ve taken to calling me this week.”

“Taken down?” she repeated his words with some confusion.

He very nearly chuckled. “Oh, my dear, you didn’t know my reputation when I was working here years ago. I was quite the demon, very demanding of musicians, disrespectful of the actors and actresses, outright ugly to the choreographers.”

“Rude to crew?” she asked him.

“Oh, now that?  My lord, no, never. The first lesson you learn in theater is never be rude to crew.  Bring your stage manager candy, or crack, or women or whatever he’s into, but don’t piss him off. You won’t find your props, your dressing room will be boiling hot or Siberia . . . or flea-infested, your costume will be smelly. You don’t mess with crew.”

“Well, at least you learned that,” she told him with a smile.

“The hard way,” he admitted. He grew silent. “I was drunk or high . . . or both, most of the time and only vaguely remember things. I do think that there might have been . . . some different woman.  I didn’t pursue them, you know. Women just seem to show up in my bed.”

Belle shrugged. “Probably before I was born.”

He scowled at her, “Probably,” he reluctantly agreed.

“Was Milah one of those women, one of the ones who showed up in your bed?”

“Yeah, sorta,” he admitted. “She had musical theater aspirations in those days. Met her in the light booth very late one evening. She was just wearing an overcoat.”

“What made her different?” she asked him, curious about how this woman had gotten him to marry her.

“She got pregnant,” he said shortly. “We had a type of closeness, but I don’t think either one of us thought we were in love with the other. When she met Killian, she moved in with him and I guess I got meaner . . . and drunker.”

“You felt betrayed?”

“And lonely. I was successful, very successful, but the men and women I met only seemed interested in me if they thought I might could help their careers along. That seemed to be the only reason that they were . . . uh . . . nice to me.”

“And then, suddenly, you got tired of it all?”

_This woman did seem to understand him._ “It was all so meaningless. I never got time with my son and I did . . . do . . . love my son. After I pulled down the EGOT, I figured I’d done it all and I was tired of the big city. So, I traveled around a bit and just ended up in Asheville.”

“Are you glad you came back here, to New York?” she had to ask.

He smiled at her, “Yes, I think. If nothing else, it’s reminded me of why I left in the first place.”

“So, you will, eventually, be coming back to Asheville?”

“Of course, my life is there,” he said softly looking at her with such intensity that she blushed.

“So . . . when?” she asked him.

“Well, there are a couple of more things that I want to do while I was in New York.”

“All right,” she answered him.

“Let’s have a nice meal and let’s do something romantic,” he said to her.

**Carriage Ride**

It was a nice meal.  Three-star restaurants did tend to present diners with very nice meals.  Much to Belle’s delight, there was a horse and carriage waiting for them when they walked outside.

“A carriage ride!” She was excited – definitely one of the things she had wanted to do. But then her breath caught in her throat. _It had gotten incredibly cold._

“Are we sure it’s April?” she asked him. She found herself shivering in her thin coat as she was rocked with a blast of cold air, very cold air, very cold, wet air.

“This is New York, my dear. It can still be cold in April,” he told her. He helped her into the carriage and wrapped a blanket across her and then put an arm around her, pulling her close so that she was able to share his body heat.

“This is so beautiful,” she told him, nestled in next to him.

“I’m so glad. I guess it’s my Romantic Soul, I always liked the idea of the occasional carriage ride, but Milah hated them – too slow, too stupid, messed up her hair, the seat was too hard . . .”

She laughed.  “It is a little different in real life – the horse is a little,” she hesitated, “farm-like.”

“Yes, and some of the carriages aren’t very comfy, but this one has cushioned seats,” he agreed.

Belle looked up.  She wasn’t quite sure if she was seeing things correctly.

“Is it snowing?” she asked.

He looked up, “I guess. They had forecast a bit of a late season snow.  Unusual, but not unheard of. It’ll probably just drop a couple of inches on us.”

Belle snuggled in next to Rumple, enjoying herself, leaning into Rumple, feeding off the heat of his body. The carriage ride in the snow, tucked in next to Rumple was just. . . was just perfect.

“You know I love you,” he said quietly.

“I do, but I like to hear you say it. Just, as I’m sure, you like to hear me tell you how much I love you,” she answered him, her head was on his chest, his arms around her.

He sighed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked pulling away from him. He was antsy, almost nervous even. She knew him well enough that he was worried about something.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he reassured her. “But the music is off a bit,” he struggled to put into words the complexity of his sensory input. “We aren’t quite in harmony, almost, but not quite.”

“Oh?”

“When I’m with you, you are a lilting tune that plays in and out of my own music.”

“Like in the play when Jurgen is with the Lady of the Lake?” she asked.

“Yes, very much like that, the low warm brown tones of the cello mixed with the blue and silver of the celesta,” he explained. “I still hear those bell-like sounds when you are in the room, when you move, when you speak. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

“And you put that into the music for the show,” she whispered.

“You put that music into my head. You put music in my head every day.  You put visions in my head. Nice ones. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have you in my life. You are my inspiration, the best that I aspire to.  Belle,” he stopped for a moment and reached into his pocket. “I’ve been carrying this for a while waiting for the right moment, not sure if you would want to take this step.”

Belle was looking at the little box. _Tiffany’s._

He looked directly in her eyes, “Would you do me the honor, Miss French? Marry me . . . please?”

She didn’t bother to look in the box, instead throwing her arms around him. “Yes, yes, yes, of course.”

“Oh good,” he muttered, planting kisses on her face.

“What?!” she had to ask. “Did you think I would say no?”

“I wasn’t sure,” he admitted. “I can be a bit of . . . an arse.”

“I would have been happy for us to continue as we’ve been going along, but this . . . this makes it even better.”

He breathed out slowly, clearly relieved and the two rode along in silence for a while. 

Then he asked, “What would you say to a honeymoon in Niagara Falls? Too hokey?”

Belle was laughing.  “No, not at all. We can ride _The Maid of the Mist_ ,” she told him. “But I’ve got school.”

“So, we postpone the official honeymoon,” he was amenable to this. “Now,” he sat up, “things are about to get worse,” he warned her. “Understand, all of this is subject to your approval. I’m willing to do whatever you want, but I’d like for us to go ahead and get the marriage license tomorrow morning and get married before you have to go back for your classes.”

Belle was quick to respond, “Sounds good. I’m okay with not waiting. But I might like to see if I can find a nice dress.”

“Of course. Milah told me there are several vintage shops that she thinks would suit your style.”

Belle was silent a moment before she spoke, “Wait. Milah knew about this?”

“Uh . . . yeah. Since she'd just done it, I asked her how one went about getting married in New York and she . . . well, I guess, she just figured things out about us.”

“Like it was hard,” Belle said flatly.

He considered, “I guess, I guess it would have been pretty easy for her to figure out what I was up to. Did I mess up?” he asked.

“No, I understand a teensy bit about how your brain works.”

They rode a while watching the snow as it began to accumulate.

“Do you have place for the ceremony picked out?” she asked.

“Uh . . . I don’t know if you’ll go for this, but I’ve always thought that one of the most romantic spots to be married is . . .”

She finished with him, “the top of the Empire State Building.”

“Yes,” he was surprised. “another one of my ideas that Milah always thought was stupid.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid. I think it’s wonderful, but,” Belle was bewildered.  “I didn’t think you could get married there unless you were one of a handful of lucky couples on Valentine’s Day.”

“Well,” he hedged, “I know enough people that I’m sure I can get us a little dispensation – there are some people who would like some free tickets to Broadway’s latest smash hit – and I’m in a position to arrange such tickets.  We will have to make the ceremony quick and have the reception somewhere else.”

“Where?” she asked. 

“Would that little deli be all right with you?” he asked.

“Fat Angels!  I love that place.  It’s perfect,” she told him. 

**The Women Talk**

It was a whirlwind. Rumple had flown up Neal and Emma, along with Ruby and Jefferson.  He’d arranged for them all to stay in the same hotel, after Ruby and Jefferson both promised to be on their best behavior _which wasn’t particularly reassuring with those two_.

The couple decided to spend their last few nights as singles apart.

“It’s probably silly, I know,” Belle had told her friends.  She was spending her last evening as a single woman at Fat Angels, drinking wine.

“Not at all.  You want the wedding night to stand out,” Ruby told her.

“Speaking of wedding nights?” Belle asked Ruby.

“Yeah, how about you and Archie?” Emma pursued the matter.

“Maybe, someday, maybe soon. We’ll see. We’re not in a hurry. It’s not like one of us is really old and could just up and die any time – like half of some couples we know,” Ruby said, pulling a face at Belle.

“Yeah, you know, we are concerned about that, Belle. I know Rumple is super-hot and all, but is he, well, is he everything a girl could hope for . . .  sack-wise?” Emma asked.

Belle considered her answer. _How much should she share about her private life with Rumple? These were her friends, but he was to be her husband. But then, she genuinely had no complaints. It wasn’t like she would be revealing anything embarrassing._

“I can’t say that he’s ever failed to satisfy,” Belle finally told her friends.

“But you won’t say how frequently he’s not failed to satisfy,” Ruby pursued.

“Enough frequently,” Belle told her. Belle looked at both her friends before continuing. “It may just be that I’m not very demanding, but two or three orgasms a night and I’m good to go.”

Emma nodded, “That sounds about right.”

Ruby also nodded soberly, “Yeah, that sounds good. Do you have a favorite place?”

“You mean -- like Weaverville?” 

“No, I mean like position, place, that kind of stuff. Like I like hot and hurried office desk sex,” Ruby elaborated.

“I get off, pun intended, on car sex,” Emma added.

“Oh,” Belle understood now. “Well, he has this amazing bathtub, and then there’s up against the wall and on . . . or against . . . the table . . . in a chair . . . uh . . . floor . . . oh, the bed, I almost forgot the bed.”

Emma sighed, “So he’s pretty mundane.”

“I don’t think so!” Belle protested.  “Where else do you two do it?”

“Well, I’ve never done it with Emma, but I don’t think that’s what you’re asking,” Ruby answered mischievously. “But my strangest place has been in a satellite dish – ended up with little grid marks all over my ass.”

Emma nodded sagely. “Yeah, I get that. For me, it was on one of the roller coasters at Carowinds.”

“That doesn’t sound comfortable,” Belle observed. “Wasn’t it kinda rushed?”

“It was after hours and the ride was set on automatic. It took us a couple of go-rounds. Nothing like going down a steep drop while you’re catching your own wave.”

Belle shook her head. “I just don’t want to do it anywhere that I’m risking a trip to the ER . . . or getting arrested.” She paused. “All right . . . once we did it standing in the window of his apartment building. He was in back of me . . .”

“I get it and I’ve heard enough,” Emma spoke up. “To be sure, ladies, I’m not entirely comfortable talking about the details of the sexual prowess of the man who’s likely to be my father-in-law. There’s a definite _euuh_ factor here.”

“Well, it doesn’t bother me. I want to know this stuff,” Ruby protested. “I have to look out for my best friend.”

“You’re looking out for me?!” Belle was stunned. “This from the woman who used to tip the busker at the Wicked Weed with a condom and her phone number on the wrapper,” Belle was shaking her head.

“Well, he was really hot,” Ruby defended herself. “Hey, you would’ve been content to live your life working in a branch library with only a ten-inch vibrator as a companion. I just want to be sure you’re trading up.”

Belle couldn’t resist, “Ten-inch vibrator? That sounds bladder-infection inducing. Let’s say I’m trading . . . close to even,” and she smiled at her friends.

Emma nodded. “Sounds about right, if there’s any father-son similarity,” she agreed.

Ruby looked at both women who were smiling smugly.  “Well da-amn. Now, I might have to see if they have a cousin somewhere or something.”

“Have you talked about babies?” Emma asked.

Belle paused. _No, they hadn’t._

**And the Men Talk**

In the back room of Per Se, a bar on the floor of the hotel, Rumple, Neal, and Jefferson were sharing some whiskey. All three were well into their cups.

“You are one lucky guy,” Jefferson told him.

“I think so,” Rumple agreed.  “Every day I’m with the woman, it just seems to be getting better.”

“Well, I’ve got to say, you seem so much happier since she’s been a part of your life.” Jefferson took a sip. “You keeping up with her?” he asked, seriously.

Rumple nodded. “’Fraid I’m going to stroke out before it’s over, but my body responds every damn time she walks into the room. And once, never seems to be enough. Fortunately, she’s pretty opened to weird so I’ve been able to keep things exciting for her.”

“You don’t know weird,” his friend scoffed. “You think doing it on the dining room table is weird.”

“It’s not?” Rumple asked.

“Nah, weird is like doing it in a satellite dish, or the roller coaster at Carowinds, or during Schindler’s List, or at somebody’s funeral . . . or while skydiving.”

“Those aren’t weird – they just sound uncomfortable – and maybe disrespectful,” Rumple told him.  “I think of places other than the bed in the bedroom as weird.”

“Oh come on, dad. No kinky experimentation? I mean, this woman’s best friend is Ruby Lucas,” Neil asked him.

“We’ve done whipped cream a few times . . . and I used one of my silk ties once.”

“Restraints or a blindfold?” Jefferson promptly asked.

“Uhmmm . . . “ Rumple hesitated. “Blindfold.”

Jefferson shook his head. “You are sooo vanilla, but, what can I say, it seems to be working for you. Let me know if you ever feel a need to spice it up. I could see your Belle in tight restraints, even suspended.”

Rumple looked at his friend, slightly askance. “I can’t,” he told him.

Neal had been laughing at this exchange. He spoke up, “She’s been good for you, Dad. I thoroughly approve.”

“Glad you like her, Neal. She’s really helped me make some changes without . . . well, without seeming to do anything. She’s just . . .  there.”

“And she’s easy on the eyes,” Jefferson joined in the toast, missing the raised glasses of the other two men.

“Here’s to me,” Rumple kept his own glass raised, “the luckiest guy in the world.”

“You moving back to Asheville soon, I take it?” Neal asked him.

“Absolutely. I know Belle wants to finish her degree and then, there’ll be your wedding to Emma and then . . . well, we’ll see.  Whatever Belle wants,” Rumple answered. “I can work anywhere.”

“Spoken like a man destined for wedded bliss,” Jefferson observed.

“What is next for you, Dad? Will you keep painting, writing music . . . what?”

Rumple sat back. “Haven’t given it much thought. I’ll certainly continue painting – Belle just inspires me every moment. Maybe write. I haven’t written in a while. I have a lot of ideas. You think I could write a novel?”

“Dad, you can do anything you put your mind to,” Neal assured him.

“Except run a four-minute mile,” Jefferson spoke looking at the bottom of his glass.

Rumple had to agree, “I’ll never been known as ‘Flash,’ but I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

The men laughed shortly and then Neal asked, “Have you talked about babies?”

Rumple paused. _No, they hadn’t._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT: The Fluffy Ending


	22. A Corner Picnic Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fluffy Ending

_Rumple has (finally) proposed – on a carriage ride with a light, late season snow falling and has been enthusiastically accepted. He had flown up their friends, Ruby and Jefferson, as well as Emma and Neal to be part of the ceremony.  They spend one last night apart as singles._

**Wedding**

With Milah’s assistance, Belle had found a several shops that sold vintage gowns. Ruby and Emma had helped her pick out an embroidered sheath gown with narrow straps embellished with a little beading. It dated from the early 80’s but was in no way typical of the overblown style of that decade. The fabric wasn’t as frail as some of the truly old gowns she had looked at and the dress had a little shape to it. The cream color flattered Belle’s complexion.

The wedding was indeed short and sweet, up sky high with a panoramic view of the city surrounding them, under the watchful eye of a security team (who’d all been provided with theater tickets).

Rumple had stood waiting with his son and his best friend for his bride.

“Nervous, Dad?” Neal had asked him, standing by as Best Man.

“Actually no. I thought I would be, but . . . I’m feeling that this is the smartest, best thing I’ve ever done in my life. I feel great,” Rumple told him.

And Jefferson on a portable keyboard began playing the theme music from the Lady of Lake (from Rumple’s _Jurgen_ play and now one of Belle’s favorite pieces). Emma came in, followed by Ruby, the Maid of Honor, and then . . . Rumple realized he wasn’t breathing . . . then he saw Belle.

It seemed to him that she was a fairy creature, not quite human, stepping lightly into this realm, crossing over, crossing over to be . . . to be with him.

Belle was struggling not to cry. She had not expected to be this emotional at her wedding, but then, she hadn’t expected that there would ever be . . . her wedding. Weddings happened to her friends and to acquaintenances and to strangers, but not to her.  And the man waiting for her – strong, and brilliant and, there was no doubt, supportive and loving, was more than she had ever imagined.  He was there, waiting . . . for her, this pillar of strength and comfort and . . . love.

They had written their own vows.

Belle promised her love, her support, her faithfulness. She wiped her nose on her wrist, brushing away her tears, but kept eye contact with her Rumple, who reached into his tuxedo pocket to pull out a handkerchief which he handed over to his weeping bride with an indulgent smile.

And Rumple, when it was his turn, he stammered a moment, letting everyone know that he didn’t think he deserved this woman, not this woman, who had changed his life, who had given him his life back. He also promised his love, his support, his faithfulness.

There was more music (another one of Rumple’s songs) provided by Jefferson on a small, portable keyboard.

Afterwards, they celebrated at Fat Angels along with the cast and crew from _Jurgen,_ folks from the art gallery, sundry others from New York’s arty scene, as well as a torrid of reporters and photographers. The little coffee and wine bar was crammed with celebrants.

Rumple was concerned about the photographers and reporters mobbing his bride. He had been watching the situation, concerned about her well-being, having been a target for blue press in the past; however, they all seemed to adore her. The woman had just the right touch of giving them some good shots and quick interviews so, for the most part, they behaved themselves around her. _Damn, but this was his Belle, capable of charming all manner of beasts, even the papparazi._

Later, they were relaxing in his suite at the hotel, both more than a little tipsy.

“I’ll have to owe you a formal honeymoon,” he promised her. “Niagara’s fine, but you know, it’s anywhere you want to go: Tahiti, the Faroe Islands, Cleveland, you got it. Get your degree and we’re off for a month.”

“Anywhere?” she asked. “Really, anywhere?”

“Sure. You married a wealthy man even if you did insist on an iron-clad pre-nup before you’d commit.”

“Well, I didn’t want people to think I was marrying you for your money,” she told him reaching around to unzip the dress.

He stopped her. “No, I want to undress you.” But then he paused, “But not just yet.”

He was looking at her in that intense, smoldering way that he had – _was she the only woman who felt the fire?_  She felt hot, perhaps she was blushing.

He motioned her to come to him and she did, standing next to him as he sat in one of the plush hotel chairs. He pulled her onto his lap and she sat comfortably, leaning against him.

He stroked her arm.  “You have never been more beautiful than you are to me right now . . . but I want to tell you that every time I see you.”

“I don’t get tired of hearing it,” she assured him.

“What did I do to deserve you?” he asked.

“I ask that question about you,” she had dropped her head on his shoulder, both of them just enjoying the closeness.

“When did you fall in love with me?” he asked curiously.

“Oh, I don’t know. It was such a slow process. I know when you helped me out of my ice cream funk, I began to think about you differently and when you came back on your premiere night . . . when my daddy had died . . . I realized then, for sure, that I was deeply in love with you.” She looked at him. “You, when did you fall in love with me?”

“When I saw you out with Will What’s His Name, on that stupid date. I think I’d decided then that I didn’t want you to ever be out with another man. I don’t know that it was love then, but it was something. And since that time, my feelings have gotten deeper and bigger and . . . more. What I feel for you is . . . singular . . . special . . . higher,” he struggled to explain.

“Wow, that’s . . . really nice,” she told him.

They sat quietly together for a long moment. 

“Let me tell you how I’d like this night to go,” he then began.

When she didn’t say anything, he continued, “I’d like to first have you in this very pretty dress. You think it can manage a little rough handling?”

“I do. It’s old but it’s not an antique,” she let him know.

“I’d like to touch you and taste you.” He heard her giggle.

“I’d like to touch and taste you, too,” and she lifted her head to run her tongue up his neck and along his chin to end things in a sloppy kiss.

When she drew back, he gave her a quick kiss on the nose. “Nice. Then, I’d like to take the dress off of you.”

“Ruby helped me pick out some special underwear,” Belle confessed.

He stilled, “Ruby did?”

“Uh huh,” she murmured, addressing herself to kissing the hallow of his neck, first breathing onto the spot, then licking him, and then finishing off with a wet kiss.

“I suppose I have something to look forward to then.” He gave up trying to imagine what his Belle’s slutty friend might have talked her into buying.

“I thought it was a little . . . a lot . . . over the top, but she promised me you’d love it.”

“I’m sure I will,” he readily agreed.

“I had to have help getting into the darn thing,” Belle told him disarmingly. “So, I’ll probably need your help unlacing it.”

Rumple groaned. He had pulled her dress up so that it was now bunched up on her thighs. He could already tell she was wearing lace topped stockings hooked onto a garter belt. 

He took a couple of deep breaths. “At this point, I’d prefer to carry you over to the bed, but I’m afraid my leg won’t let me.”

“I’ve noticed you seem to be doing better with getting around on that leg.”

_Hardly wedding night talk._ “Yeah, I think it has something to do with my maid,” he told her. “She keeps me to regular hours, expects me to eat right, exercise, reduce my drug and alcohol intake – all in all, my overall health has improved and I’m certainly getting around better,” he admitted.

“So, it’s not hurting you so much?” she asked, her eyes big and round _and reflecting her genuine concern._

“No, it’s not hurting so much,” he agreed. “So, I’m not so dependent on that damn cane.”

Satisfied, she slipped off his lap and led him over to the king-sized bed that dominated the room.

She sat down on the side of the bed and he dropped to his knees, gently pulling her knees apart and running his hands up her silk-covered legs. Belle reached over and dropped a pillow onto the floor.

“Think I’m going to be here awhile?” he asked, glancing down at the pillow.

“I just want you to be comfortable while you’re there,” she explained.

“Always thinking of me,” he muttered, but he pulled the pillow under his knees. And then, looking up at her, he dropped his hands so that they were touching her on the insides of her thighs, now reaching above the tops of her stockings. 

She purred and closed her eyes, knowing well what was to come.  She reached down to touch his face, tracing around his ears and running her fingers through his hair.  

He did this well, moving slowly but deliberately, using his finger tips and his lips and, eventually, his tongue, working his way along her inner thighs, stopping now and again to breath in her essence. He found there was a little scrap of fabric in his way and he was able to ease it aside to give him access to his desired objective.

He stopped, surprised. Belle was blushing, the pink flushing her entire body.

“Ruby and Milah . . . they made me go get waxed,” she told him.

_Well, he might miss his little au natural girl, but this made things considerably easier at the moment._

He continued his efforts, still using his fingertips, his lips, his tongue, lapping her, flicking over her wet, sensitized mound and cleft, her little nub so swollen that it was peeking out of her folds. She was usually too sensitive to tolerate direct contact quickly, but he decided to push her limits and startled her by latching on, gently holding onto her.

“Rumple, I can’t stand this,” she protested, her fingers locking in his hair.

But she didn’t try to pull him off, so, still maneuvering as delicately as he could, he began to apply a little suction. Her legs locked around his back, the heels of her shoes digging into him. He began to use his tongue to give her more stimulation and she began to shiver and shake.

“Rumple. . . Rumple . . . I can’t . . . I  . . . I . . .“ and she cried out, her body tensing and shaking as she gave herself over to him.

He released her then and used his tongue to tease her, tasting her sultry, sweet nectar. She had fallen backwards onto the bed and was unresisting as he pulled himself up and along her body, stopping only long enough to release himself from his clothing, before driving into her. Her body was still halfway off the bed and they both knew this position allowed for continued strong, steady stimulation of her already sensitized tissues.

She was kissing him as she could, befuddled and not able to think clearly. The steady, hard pushing, rocking motion soon set her off a second time and he nearly lost himself as her inner walls massaged and encouraged him to let go. 

 

Later, the dress came off and he made a mental note to buy Ruby some flowers . . . or tickets to his show . . . or a house.  She had done well with getting his usually reserved bride into a naughty piece of white lace nonsense. Getting her out of it did take some time, slowing him up when he wanted to go fast – he guessed that might have been the point of the garment. He was biting his lip in frustration, cussing silk, when unpicking the ribbon lacing and ended up popping one of the ribbons off before he could dislodge the garment from her body.

Once free, Belle had turned on him and pushed him down onto the bed and climbed on top of him, dropping herself onto his ever-ready cock.  He didn’t protest – this was easily one of his favorite positions. He slid his hands along her still silk-clad thighs and up her body to cup her breasts, supporting them while she rocked and slid back and forth against him, his thumbs brushing against the engorged nipples.

“That’s nice,” she managed to murmur.

He pulled her down so he could kiss her. “This is perfect, you know.  All the sounds, the sights, everything is perfect – all in harmony. I can’t ask for any more.”

Belle just smiled. She was panting and pulled her hair back and away from her neck. She dropped herself. supporting her weight on her arms to continue and gasped when he slipped his hand to rest between their bodies, giving her more stimulation.

She heard it this time, when they broke against each other and before she fell down to rest on him, nearly falling asleep. _She’d heard a small warm sound, like a cello moaning and building filling her brain with its mellow notes and she realized it had been the sound of their coming together. And falling along with the sounds were sweet smells of salty ocean mixed with caramel and fresh air._

“You all right?” he asked, catching the bewildered look on her face.

“Do you smell caramel?” she asked him.

He shook his head, “No, with you, I smell vanilla and roses.”

“Well, I just had the oddest experience,” she told him. “I heard . . . like a cello and then there were these smells coming over me – nice ones, but definitely there.  Is was alittle . . . overwhelming.  Is that . . . is that what it’s like for you?”

“All the time, so many things, so much . . . coming in, pouring in. But it’s all good with you.” He looked deep into her eyes, “It’s all good, Belle. It’s hard to explain, but I’ve always felt like I was on fire, burning up from the inside, my energy like flames. But with you,” he struggled to put it into words, “I’m still on fire, but I’m not . . . I’m not being consumed. There’s a focus now. It’s good, really good.” 

Belle nestled against him.  _No wonder this man walked that fine line between genius and insanity. She hoped she was going to be able to manage this marriage – but then she realized she had their love to help._

_It was going to be all right._

 

**A Year Later**

“What do you think?” he held up the latest pastel he had quickly finished.

“You never cease to amaze me, you know that?” she said to him looking over the sweet drawing he’d done.

It was herself holding their two-month old son. Rumple had managed to capture the distinct air of trust and comfort the two had with each other, mother and child. As he portrayed them so often, they both looked like fairy creatures, creatures of light and magic.

They were living north of Asheville in the Blue Ridge Mountains. They had a small cabin up a winding road. He’d made sure they had connections with the outside world, including electricity and indoor plumbing, and they still had his loft in the city, but this had become the place where they spent most of their time. It was quiet and peaceful.

Belle had come to understand that her husband was inundated with sensory input and he was much saner and more functional in a quieter environment. He was still painting and drawing, but he had also gone back to composing music, increasingly complex, sophisticated music, now able to separate out some of the sounds that were constantly barraging him. He was also writing again, compelled as always to produce, produce, produce. He couldn’t stop himself – the nature of his genius was not something he could turn off but, at best, he could channel it. He was also keeping regular hours and had cut back on his drinking to the occasional after-dinner repast. He was clear-eyed and lucid during his waking hours and he’d grown far less grumpy around others.

Belle herself was volunteering three days a week in a small community library. The area was populated mostly by young couples and older couples who had wanted to get away from the city, but still craved learning and stimulation, so she had moved into an old gas station, renovating it and adding shelves. There had been some money available from the county and this was combined with a community drive to raise money to stock the shelves. Rumple had quietly double-matched the funds. Belle had taken suggestions as to what books the community would like to have available. She was just beginning to offer additional services, such as starting a book club, a writer’s group, a children’s hour and the library was open to other groups who just wanted a place to meet.  She wanted to get in attorneys to talk about different legal issues, maybe some plant specialists, and some craft people to do presentations, but hadn’t gotten these ideas off the ground yet. 

That evening, she sat on her deck, watching her husband rock their baby, and looked out over the breath-taking vista.

“Your mother called to let me know she wanted to come and visit. She asked if there was a nice restaurant we could meet her in to have lunch,” Belle told him.

“I’ll call and see if I can get reservations for us at Clayle’s Bait Shop,” Rumple said offhandedly. “Maybe get a corner picnic table.”

Belle shook her head, “Oh, I don’t know. That place used to be an actual bait shop . . . and it still smells like one.”

“But they serve fresh caught rainbow trout,” Rumple reminded her. “Best food for forty miles,” he praised the little business that had been converted from an unsuccessful bait shop into a successful lunch bar for the area residents.

“I just have difficulties imagining your mother in her Prada clothes and Louboutins sitting at one of Clayle’s wooden picnic tables, drinking a PBR out of a can and eating deep-fried, breaded fish and curly fries from a cheap, paper-lined plastic basket.”

“I’d recommend she get a side of cole slaw, too,” Rumple said mildly. Then, he added, “I guess, I could ask Clayle if he could serve her out of one of the expensive paper-lined plastic baskets.”

Belle sighed in exasperation. “You just try to irritate her, don’t you?”

He considered and had to agree, “Probably.” He sipped his lemonade that his wife had made earlier that afternoon. “You know, you’ve been good for both of us. We talked about it one time – we both decided that you’re some kind of a witch . . . or a fairy, or something.”

“Me? No, you’re the one with magical powers. I’m just an involved second party who tries to get you to do good with your talents.”

He snorted, “If that’s true, then you’ve done a great job. My mother’s happy and I don’t think she ever was before. And my dad too.”

“And you?” she asked him.

“Do you have to ask? I’ve never been happier. Every day . . . in every way.”  He looked down at his infant son. “And you? Are you happy?” he whispered this question, almost as if he was afraid of the answer.

“Do you have to ask?” she repeated his words. “Although, at some point, I might like to have a little daughter, maybe with your big brown eyes.”

He nodded, “Well, if she looks like her mother, oh man, I know I’ll be in trouble.”

They both rocked quietly for a while.

“This is turning out to be a nice life, I think,” she told him.

“I’ve had several lives, you know, and I would have to agree,” he answered.  “This is a nice life.”    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who kudo'd, commented and followed this story along. Rumbelle fluffy romance is always such fun write. And Rumple's mother did turn into a fascinating character (and she was not in my original draft written more than two years ago).  
> My next story should be up shortly.  It’s entitled 'Still.' It's a movie remix of the 1951 The Day the Earth Stood Still with a smarter heroine and a hotter would-be savior alien, along with a special guest appearance by Dr. Nicholas Rush.


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